


Matchmaker, Matchmaker

by ll_again



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dealing with past trauma, F/M, Matchmaking, Mr Perfect is literally Mr Perfect, No idea how that works but it's in canon so, Sherlock does that thing where he texts with his phone behind his back, because I can't just write fluff apparently, because that is my kink, couples who respect each other, denial is not just a river in egypt, except the two dinks who are performing it, it is Sherlock's persistent mental state, lots of 'just friends' PDA, now I have to deal with actual plot, which fools no one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-19
Updated: 2017-08-24
Packaged: 2018-10-20 21:00:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 26,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10670670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ll_again/pseuds/ll_again
Summary: Sherlock loves Molly. He wants her to be happy. But, romantic relationships "aren't his area", so he takes it upon himself to apply his considerable deductive prowess to finding Molly a non-psychopathic boyfriend who is good husband material. Preferably before her childbearing years are out, so he can get another godchild out of the deal.Only, Sherlock can't seem to find anybody worthy of Molly's time. And then he does. And only then does he realize why he'd rejected so many. Now he has to figure out what to do about his newfound feelings before it's too late and Molly marries Mr Perfect.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This sprang from one of the many discarded bits of the post-TFP conversation I wrote for Detritus. But this is definitely not in the same universe. I'm mostly writing this to scrub the Detritus angst-fest out of my brain, so I can promise a happy, proper Sherlolly ending this time.
> 
> This was meant to be short and fluffy, so of course my brain was like "hey I bet that Molly really wants Sherlock to open up about Eurus" and now there's Plot, and things have to get resolved, and it looks like this is going to be at least a two-parter.

> **SH** What about that oncologist?  
>  The one with the teeth.
> 
> All the oncologists I know have teeth, Sherlock.  
>  You're going to have to be more specific. **Mx**  
> 
> **SH** He was at Barts.
> 
> Not really helping. **Mx**
> 
> **SH** The one who was chatting you up. In the  
>  cafeteria? Yes, must have been. Honestly, Molly,  
>  how many moderately attractive oncologists  
>  at Barts are chatting you up that you can't keep  
>  track?
> 
> Oh! You mean Dr Ellis.  
>  Wait.  
>  You better not have set me up on a blind date.  
>  Again.  
>  With Dr Ellis.  
>  Damn it, Sherlock.  
>  You did *not* forget what I said about that.  
>  Don't pretend like you did.  
>  You are like a god-damned elephant. **Mx**
> 
> **SH** No, of course I didn't, Molly.  
>  I did promise to ask first, didn't I? So I'm asking.  
>  (How on earth do you type so fast?) 
> 
> Dunno, adrenaline probably.  
>  And that's a 'hell no' to Dr Ellis, btw. We went out  
>  ages ago. He was rude to the waiter. I'm pretty  
>  sure he spit in our food.  
>  The waiter, I mean. Not Dr Ellis. **Mx**  
> 
> **SH** John says you'll make cute babies. 
> 
> Tell John to fuck off.  
>  And as for you, Sherlock Holmes, stop using my  
>  login to look at the Barts employee files. **Mx**  
> 
> **SH** I can't help it that your password is so obvious.  
>  John does have a point. Would you consider  
>  a sperm donation? 
> 
> Oh my god. Have you been asking your hacker  
>  friend to photoshop our faces together to see what  
>  potential offspring might look like? **Mx**
> 
> **SH** No.
> 
> Liar.  
>  If you want more godbabies that badly, find John  
>  a girlfriend and poke holes in his condoms. **Mx**  
> 
> **SH** Okay. But I'm telling John it was your idea.
> 
> ...That was a joke, Sherlock. **Mx**
> 
> **SH** You say that now.  
>  Wait until we have another godbaby on the way.
> 
> OH MY GOD SHERLOCK.  
>  No, you know what, I'm done with you for tonight.  
>  I've got the early shift, and I need to get to sleep. **Mx**  
> 
> **SH** Good night, Molly.  
>  By the way, if you do consider artificial insemination,  
>  I know someone who runs a sperm bank.  
>  Owes me a favor. I helped him prove his wife was  
>  cheating just in time for his divorce hearing. 
> 
> Let it go, Sherlock. **Mx**
> 
> **SH** Fine. If you insist. Sweet dreams. 

…

Molly snorted at the last text message and silenced her phone, plugging it in to charge on her bedside table. Six months post Sherringford and these conversations had become normal.

Six days post Sherringford, John and Mrs Hudson had tricked a thoroughly irate Molly into tea with Sherlock, who very carefully explained the events surrounding the phone call. By the time their conversation was over, she'd cried, he'd cried, and the friendship that had been on rocky ground since their shared ambulance ride was well on its way to being repaired.

But friends, as Sherlock insisted, was all that they could be. He loved her, he'd said, that was real. But only platonically. He wasn't capable of anything else. He'd been so gentle with her feelings, so genuinely apologetic, that Molly had accepted it as gracefully as she was able (although not, she was embarrassed to admit, without a few more shed tears).

Besides, what was she going to do, get mad at him because he didn't feel the same way? No, of course not. She'd be upset, yes. And bitter, yes, that too. But at the end of the day, Sherlock couldn't help how he felt about her any more than she could help her own feelings.

And really, it's not as if Sherlock had told her anything she didn't already know. Molly had accepted long ago that the consulting detective was not one for romantic feelings, just as she'd long ago accepted that the way she felt about him wasn't going anywhere.

All of that was fine. Just like before this whole mess had started, Molly soldiered on, with her work at Barts, her duties as godmother to Rosie Watson, all the while quietly loving Sherlock. The difference now was that Sherlock (and John and Mycroft, as she'd discovered later) knew about the latter. But even that was something of a relief, to finally have it out in the open. No longer did she feel as though she had to pretend she felt something less than the way she really did.

And by some twisted miracle, the ordeal with his sister had endowed Sherlock with actual emotional cognizance. He still had his moments – particularly when he was deep in a case – but these days he tended to pay attention. He cared about her feelings. He was her friend, and surprisingly, he was actually a pretty good one at that (if one ignored most of his Sherlock quirks, like forgetting birthdays and requesting urgent autopsies at 3 in the morning after she'd worked a double shift).

But somewhere along the way, Sherlock's new adventure with feelings had led him to an entirely new level of concern about her. Specifically, he had taken her dating history as a signal that marriage and children were among her long term goals. (When, ironically, Molly had just started to come to terms with the idea that single was a lifestyle she was perfectly happy to live.)

It was sweet in its way, how he worried that she was fundamentally unhappy and was doing his best to make things better. But Sherlock being Sherlock, he just couldn't help himself when he'd announced that "obviously" she needed assistance in that area given her track record when left to her own devices. And Sherlock did nothing by halves; he vetted every man who so much as glanced at her for longer than a second with his unique, deductive, um, "charm".

John, the sod, thought the whole thing was hilarious, and refused to try and talk Sherlock out of his matchmaking attempts. In fact, Molly suspected that John was encouraging his best friend in his efforts, a theory that Sherlock's comments tonight had substantiated.

Just the week before, Molly had forbidden Sherlock to impersonate her online after finding out he'd signed up for no less than ten dating sites using her name and photo. And a month ago, after a particularly disastrous blind date, they had come to an agreement that any future dates needed her okay well before he set them up, not five seconds before he pushed her into the restaurant.

Molly snuggled down into her blankets, a smile on her lips as she drifted off. Life as Sherlock's friend, if nothing else, wasn't boring.

 …

"Molly, I need a list of everyone you've dated," Sherlock said as he breezed into the lab.

Across the table from her, Mike Stamford ducked his head, his shoulders shaking with quiet chuckles. Molly herself lifted her eyes from her work briefly, pleading for patience.

"Everyone?" she asked, most of her concentration on her labwork.

Sherlock pulled out the stool next to her and dropped onto it with a graceful ease that made Molly burn with envy. A hardcover notebook was slapped onto the worktable, which made her wince. Not at the sound, but because she knew that this one – one of those generic journals typically sold at bookshops, with a printed cover patterned in bright yellow flowers – was his Molly notebook. Sherlock was, after all, a meticulous researcher.

"Yes, of course, everyone," Sherlock said impatiently while he flipped through the pages. "We'll start with long term relationships – see if I've missed any – then I'll need all the failed dates you've been on. Don't want another Dr Ellis to crop up."

Mike chortled. (The traitor. He, like John, was enjoying this matchmaking malarkey far too much, and refused to take Molly's side.) "Surely you didn't try Dr Ellis, Sherlock," he said. "Not after... oh, no, I think you were away then." Bless the man, Mike sweetly didn't point out that Sherlock had been 'away' in rehab during that calamitous date.

Sherlock's eyes flicked rapidly between the two coworkers. "Not after what?" he asked, unable to contain his curiosity.

"Oh, well," Mike tossed Molly an uncertain glance. She smiled and shrugged a shoulder, tacitly giving him permission to continue. "The day after their date, Molly came in and spent a good thirty minutes ranting. We all caught an earful about it."

Mike said it with some pride, which at least partially stemmed from the dumbfounded expression that settled on Sherlock's face. Her date with Dr Ellis was years back, early in their acquaintance, when she'd been perpetually tongue tied around Sherlock. And of course the genius consulting detective had yet to realize that she'd always been able to act perfectly normally around other people.

"I was new," Molly spoke up in her own defense. "And young. Well, younger. And Dr Ellis seemed perfectly nice when he asked me out, but then I find out that-" Breaking off with a huff, Molly rolled her eyes as she put a cover on the slide she was preparing. "Well, nevermind."

"Sorry, Molly," Mike said. "I would have warned you beforehand if I'd known."

She waved away his apology. "Not your fault, Mike. Sanjay, on the other hand, was standing right there when Dr Ellis asked me out. He could have said something, the wanker." Despite the sour words, Molly said them with a smile. She'd come to no real harm – other than a truly awful night out, and even then, her date had coughed up for dinner, so it hadn't been a total loss. That, of course, didn't mean she was ever going to let her coworkers entirely off the hook for not warning her about Ellis' dating notoriety, which was well known among the staff.

Molly clipped her slide on the microscope stage and peered through the eyepiece, jotting down a few notes. When she leaned back, Sherlock was studying her with a strange expression. It wasn't quite like his deducing face, nor was it his mind palace expression. She huffed inwardly in amusement when she realized he was probably cataloging the new information he'd acquired about her.

Suddenly realizing she was staring back, Sherlock shook himself and gestured to her microscope, "May I?"

Molly nodded, and started to relinquish her chair, but Sherlock, already on his feet, cupped a hand over her shoulder to keep her in place and simply leaned down next to her to look into the microscope. He was close enough that his body brushed against hers, and Molly couldn't quite suppress a shudder.

She might have, intellectually at least, reconciled with the fact that they were only destined to be friends, but the physical attraction to him was still there. Probably always would be, even if they both made it to one hundred and he was permanently bent over at the waist and sprouting great tufts of gray hair out of everywhere but his head.

A fond smile curved her mouth at the image of an ancient Sherlock confronting the criminal classes armed with only his wit and John's cane. And she'd be right there with them, helping Sherlock and John to the last (and probably the only thing keeping that pair from breaking their hips in the pursuit of the bad guys). It wasn't at all a bad future to envision, even if it was nothing like the plans she'd had when she was young.

A curious hum from Sherlock drew her back to the present. "Anaphalaxsis?" he said, lifting his head away from the microscope briefly before bending back for a second look. "Although it could be..."

"Poison," Molly said with him. "I'm going to run some tests, just to check."

Sherlock straightened and glanced over her notes, nodding as he read. "Excellent, Molly," he said with warm approval, which brought a pleased flush to her face. "You'll let me know-"

"Of course," she chirped. "It's one of Greg's anyway, so he'll want you involved if it's anything interesting."

Molly's breath caught in her throat when Sherlock twisted to look down at her, eyes crinkled at the corners and one side of his mouth curled upwards in an affectionate smile. A moment later, she regretted not trying harder to temper her reaction, as the smile disappeared, briefly replaced by a stricken, guilty mien, which he, in turn, did a poor job of covering up.

"Well," Molly said briskly, sliding off her chair. "I need some tea if we're going to go digging through my entire dating history. At the very least. Mike, I'll be in the cafeteria if anyone comes looking for me."

"Ta," Mike replied with a distracted air, engrossed in his own work.

Molly led Sherlock out of the lab, suppressing a sigh. This wasn't a conversation she was particularly eager to have, but Sherlock's guilt a moment ago was a neat reminder of why he'd started this whole mess. It was clear that he keenly regretted his inability to return her feelings, and he was genuinely trying to do something nice that he thought would make up for it. So more for Sherlock's sake than anything, Molly was willing to play along.

To a point, obviously. She was absolutely not giving him a list of her favorite sex positions, no matter how many times he asked.

…

Dear Lord, this was embarrassing.

For one thing, Sherlock had _hacked her Facebook_ to build his list of her past relationships. She had, at least, kicked him in the ankle until he'd profusely apologized. (Only twice. Sherlock might still have his Not Good moments, but he'd mastered the art of begging Molly for forgiveness a long time ago.)

Probably the worst part was that Sherlock's deduction – that she was the type to hang onto all of her old flames, even in only the most minimal respect as Facebook friends – was startlingly accurate. He'd found every one of her serious boyfriends, all the way back to Derrick Walsh in sixth form, and Molly didn't like to think about what that said about her.

For another, Molly was quickly realizing that she had been out with an alarming number of her coworkers at Barts, even if most of them had only been a single date. And that wasn't even counting Jim from IT, the pinnacle of the shitshow that was her dating life so far.

"Oh my God," Molly groaned, burying her head into her crossed arms on the cafeteria table. "Can we just cross everyone at Barts off the list? What the hell was I even thinking? Everybody knows you're not supposed to dip into the company ink." She lifted her head just in time to see Sherlock's expression as he worked out the 'company ink' reference, which at least brought a smile to her face.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "You are incapable of telling anyone 'no', Molly," he said. "Especially if they ask nicely. And yes, before you say anything, I'm fully aware that it's a trait of yours I've taken advantage of in the past, and I … apologize?" 

Molly pressed her lips together in a smile as Sherlock looked at her sideways with that little boy 'I did good?' face. "Thank you," she said primly. "In any case, that's over with. Starting now, no more pushover Molly. And definitely, _definitely_ no more dates with coworkers."

"You aren't a pushover, Molly. You're just nice." Sherlock blinked a few times, then smirked. "Don't think you have to worry about the coworkers. Looks like you've been through them all. At least all the available ones."

"Sherlock Holmes!" Molly shrieked, snatching up his Molly notebook and threatening him with it. Sherlock flinched away comically, but Molly only prodded at his arm with the edge. "Jerk," she said, but through a laugh.

Sherlock crinkled his eyes at her again. This time though, she managed to suppress her reaction, which came with the added bonus of Sherlock holding onto his smile for a longer beat.

"I need that back, you know," he said, nodding at the notebook. "If you aren't going to date coworkers, then I've got my work cut out for me, and we're quickly running out of time."

Molly rolled her eyes, but she did hand back the notebook. "There's plenty of time, Sherlock. I'm not _that_ old; I've a few good years left in me yet."

Sherlock looked up from his perusal of his notes with a confused frown. "What are you-? Oh, you mean to have babies. Well, yes, that's also a consideration, but actually I was talking about that charity ball thing." Molly blinked at him blankly. "You said you needed a date?"

"Oh!" Molly fidgeted with her empty teacup and grimaced at the reminder of Barts' annual charity do. "About that, actually... I thought maybe you could come with me? Just as friends," she added quickly. "Not a real date. Well, obviously. Only … I went alone last year and had to fend off drunk surgeons the whole night. I hate surgeons, Sherlock."

"Molly," he interjected, eyes glinting with humor. "You trained as a surgical pathologist."

"I know!" She threw her hands up in exasperation. "So I know exactly what they're like. Arrogant berks, the lot of them. I promise, if you come with me, you can deduce the whole surgical ward to tears."

"You like arrogant berks," Sherlock pointed out, much to Molly's surprise. He never referred to her feelings for him, not even obliquely. Probably he hoped that by not doing so, they would fade over time.

Silly man.

"No," Molly said. "I don't mind arrogant berks if there's something there to back that arrogance up. Most of these surgeons are not nearly as talented as they think they are." She forced her face into a sunny smile, in part to reassure Sherlock, who'd started to fidget, and in part to push away her own admiration of the man sitting next to her. Idolizing Sherlock was a dangerous path she didn't venture down very often; it brought up too many messy feelings.

"I just can't go alone this year, Sherlock," she continued, frowning at the thought. "And I can't not go; it's a work thing and I do have to at least put in an appearance. We don't have to stay long; I know you hate this sort of thing- oh, or I could ask John, I guess."

"Do I have to wear a tie?" Sherlock interrupted suddenly, eyeing her with suspicion that was perhaps justifiable. She and Mrs Hudson had browbeat Sherlock for a week about wearing a tie to Rosie's christening. (Which, ultimately had had no effect, of course.)

"Nope," Molly replied, popping the 'p' the way Sherlock was wont to do when he was being particularly cheeky. "Actually, it's fancy dress. We could be pirates – oh!" Molly covered her mouth with her hand, realizing just too late that pirates might be a tender subject, given everything that had happened with Eurus and Redbeard. "No, I mean... not pirates, um. Shit. We don't have to dress up, especially as we won't stay long. We can just be Sherlock and Molly..."

Sherlock wrapped his long fingers around Molly's wrist, gently tugging her hand away from her mouth. Sliding his hand up so their palms pressed together, he intertwined their fingers and set their joined hands on the tabletop. "I like pirates," he said mildly, but he wasn't looking at her, so she couldn't tell anything from his face.

"I'm so sorry," Molly said, gut writhing anxiously. "I didn't mean to..."

"Don't apologize, Molly." Now he did turn to her, smiling, but his eyes weren't crinkled at the corners so she knew it was forced. Sherlock released her hand and touched a finger to her cheek. "You never have anything to apologize for."

And then he just … stopped. Finger still pressed to her cheek, warm blue eyes flickering minutely, Sherlock froze in place and simply stared at her. Molly had been witness to his infamous buffering mode before, and this wasn't it, because he was definitely, absolutely, staring _at_ her, not _through_ her into whatever was whirling around that big brain of his. She in turn, was likewise frozen, lips parted slightly, memorizing (ha, as if she needed to do that again) every plane and angle of his face.

Eventually, Sherlock was the one to break the spell, drawing back his hand and blinking rapidly. "I've never done a fancy dress," he said as if nothing had happened. "Well, no, Mummy made us once, when we were children. For a contest at the village fete. Mycroft wanted to be Archimedes, but Mummy made him go as some cartoon bear obsessed with honey."

Molly nearly choked on her laugh and ended up snorting loudly. "Oh my God," she gasped. "What did you go as?"

Sherlock leaned his head on his fist and smiled dreamily. "I was a bee. It was fun." His ever-changing eyes sparkled as he locked his gaze with hers. "We never did do it again, though."

"I can't imagine why," Molly drawled.

Sherlock shot her a look of carefully crafted innocence that she didn't buy for a second. After a moment, he shrugged expressively and sat back, pouting at her wordless insinuations. "Well," he began grudgingly. "There may have been a bit of an incident..."

Molly rolled her eyes, and Sherlock broke off with a huff, although his eyes glinted with mutual amusement (and, of course, not the slightest bit of chagrin for whatever disaster he'd wrought on the fete). A question popped into her head suddenly, and Molly wrung her hands together under the table for a moment before she decided to go ahead and ask.

"Was Eurus dressed up too?"

A frown flickered across Sherlock's brow as he subsided into thought. Just as an increasingly nervous Molly was about to retract her question, he ventured hesitantly, "Yes... yes, I … I remember a photo. She was in something pink … a piglet, I suppose." He smiled, a real one this time, although it was wan, especially compared to his earlier ones. "Little wonder Eurus burned down the house, really."

Molly gave him an uncertain smile and laid her hand over his. Sherlock flipped his hand over to clutch at her fingers, but gave no other outward sign that he noticed the gesture. That sat like that, in comforting silence, as Sherlock drifted through his mind palace and Molly tried to figure out what had possessed Mrs Holmes to dress her terrifyingly genius children as characters from Winnie the Pooh.

A beep brought Molly out of her reverie, and she glanced at her phone, only to realize that what she'd meant to be a short tea break had extended into nearly an hour. "Are we done?" Molly said, then winced. "Sorry. Only I should get back. I have to run those tests for Greg..."

Sherlock, already getting to his feet, glanced down his nose at her, smirking slightly when Molly scrambled out of her own chair. "Yes, the potential poisoning," he said. He sounded normal, but Molly watched him closely anyway, concerned about the affect visiting old memories might have had on him. "I'll help you."

And he started to stride off, long legs carrying him far enough away from Molly's stunned form, that by the time she recovered she had to jog to catch up.

"What, _really_?"

Sherlock looked down at her over his shoulder. "Bored," he explained with a shrug and a bit of a whine. "The criminals of the world are being most unaccommodating."

Molly smacked him lightly on the arm with the back of her hand. "Prat," she said. "Only you would complain about a decrease in the murder rate. Don't you have any clients?"

They reached the elevator, and Sherlock pushed the down button. "Meeting one this afternoon," he said unenthusiastically. "But it's probably not worth my time."

"You said that about that bloke who worked for the Tube, and look how that turned out," Molly pointed out as they boarded the elevator.

Sherlock stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets and leaned indolently against the wall. His eyes were smiling again; they seemed to be doing that a lot today. "I say that about all my clients," he said. "In statistical terms, I have a very high accuracy rate."

Molly 'humphed' lightly. "If you based your decisions on that, you'd never see _any_ clients, and then you'd miss one hundred percent of the interesting ones."

The elevator doors slid open, but Sherlock didn't immediately move to get out. Instead, he was stuck watching her with a bit of a dumbfounded expression. "Well," Sherlock said slowly. "You are correct, of course."

Molly sniffed, and set off down the hall, this time leaving Sherlock to catch her up. "Of course I am."

Mike had left to teach his class, so the lab was empty when Molly and Sherlock entered. At his request, Molly divided up the tasks for the toxicology tests she was running, all the while amazed at how willing he was to take direction from her. Sherlock's laboratory discipline was impeccable (even if his adherence to safety standards was below par), and they quickly settled into their work.

"Sherlock?" Molly said, breaking the silence a little while later. He grunted wordlessly, so she assumed he was listening. "Listen, I'm sorry if I upset you earlier, bringing up your sister like I did. If you don't want to talk about her, you can just tell me. But, um. Well, I just thought..." Molly dared a glance over at him. 

Sherlock had paused sometime during her speech, pipette hovering mid-air. His throat worked as he swallowed, then set the instrument down. "No," he said, conspicuously not looking her way. "I don't mind, actually. No one else mentions her."

Molly could well imagine. John was still angry at her for chaining him in a well and all, and Sherlock's family too ingrained in the habit of denying Eurus' existence altogether. It was partially the reason Molly had decided to bring her up in the first place. Sherlock didn't "do" therapy, but that didn't mean he didn't need to talk about the lost parts of his childhood.

Chewing on her lip, Molly's hands worked separate of her brain. "Have you been to visit her?"

"Once," Sherlock said, taking his own work up again as he spoke. There was a wealth of hurt in that single word, making Molly conclude that the visit hadn't gone well. "I should go again," he said, more softly. "I would like to."

"I'll go with you," Molly offered immediately and without thought. "If you want."

"No!" Sherlock snapped back sharply. The violent exclamation seemed twice as loud in the quiet lab, and Molly jumped in her seat, nearly spilling her samples. Sherlock sucked in a breath, and added at a more normal volume, but in an equally strained voice, "No, I don't think that's wise. Although I … appreciate the sentiment, Molly."

When Molly glanced his way, Sherlock's back was towards her as he worked. Her eyes softened as she took in the taught line of his shoulders and his jerky, agitated movements.

"Me too," she whispered almost silently to herself.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo, I was overly optimistic about finishing this in two chapters. There will be at least one more to wrap everything up and get these two goofs together at last.

The client was every bit as dull as expected. Sherlock had tuned him out by the fourth word of his account and spent the rest of the time the man was talking deducing little facts about him.

This client – who had a name, Sherlock was fairly certain, he just hadn't bothered to learn it – was a youngish professional, early thirties, and without thinking about it, Sherlock fell into a habit he'd been cultivating for some months now.

Solidly middle class, going off his suit. There were a few indulgences, an expensive watch and tie pin (that one likely a gift, as it didn't quite match his overall aesthetic), but by and large he was economical in his choices. Not outright cheap, so he was someone fairly comfortable in his income bracket. Likely, he'd always been comfortable, so while not upwardly mobile, he was at least stable. Job was on the rocks – or about to be, really should say something about that, it _was_ his reason for coming – but through no fault of his own. Solidly stable really seemed to sum this chap up, all around.

He ticked other boxes too: right height, dark hair with a hint of a curl. Nice (??) eyes. Correct build.

Oh, this was bad. Was it bad? Why was it bad?

Sherlock rose from his chair and started pacing. The client faltered mid-recitation, but recovered fairly quickly, all the more credit to him.

Avid participant in fantasy golf, of all things. Surely that belonged in the negative column.

"You're looking for a girlfriend," Sherlock said suddenly, cutting off his client mid-sentence. The man's brow furrowed, but he didn't gape unbecomingly or anything like that, which was irritating.

No. Promising. It was promising. Tim – Ted? Meat dagger, anyway – had seemingly been grafted at birth with a permanently befuddled expression. Not a good sign, as it had turned out.

"No, that's not-"

Sherlock waved a hand impatiently, "Yes, obviously not why you came. But nonetheless..." His client tugged at his shirt cuff, flushing red. "Right," Sherlock ground out. "Wait here."

And he stomped – no, not stomped, he wasn't some petulant child; _stalked,_ with an exceeding amount of catlike grace – through the kitchen. At the last moment, Sherlock turned back, pinning his stunned client with a stern glare. "Don't go anywhere," he said, waiting for the man to nod uncertainly before he disappeared into his bedroom.

Sherlock couldn't quite explain the impulse to remove himself to make this particular phone call. All he knew was that he didn't like the idea of being overheard. Really didn't like the idea of _Molly_ being overheard, even if it was only in the most indirect sense of filling in the spaces between his words.

It still stung that John and his brother had been witness to the most visceral conversation of his and Molly's acquaintance. An acquaintance – no, it was a friendship, and every bit as strong as the one he shared with John Watson. A friendship, then, that had included more than one frank discussion of his probable death, a tearful apology about Moriarty (hers, and an entirely unnecessary one), an array of chastisements (all of them aimed at his own faults, as Molly's were so minuscule they were hardly worth mentioning), and one truly spectacular bust up about cat hair and its preternatural attraction to the seat of his trousers.

Well, maybe the less said about that last one, the better.

But all of that had paled in comparison with The phone call. It wasn't for his own sake that he resented their audience – he, of course, was immune to embarrassment – but for Molly's. Eurus' game had stripped away the pretense she'd crafted over the years, forcing a confession to feelings that ran deeper than even John had realized. Such a confession, one she surely would have never made under lesser circumstances, had cracked her open, exposing a vulnerability she usually kept shielded behind awkwardly morbid jokes and wide, sunny smiles. Sherlock hated that she'd been seen in such a state by people who were not meant to see her like that.

(It never occurred to him that he was also in no position to have the right to see Molly's deepest vulnerabilities. Or what it meant that he felt perfectly at ease with the idea of Molly coming to him when she was at her lowest, whereas he frequently unceremoniously tossed out anyone else who so much as sniffled mournfully in his presence.)

Sherlock pressed the 'call' button only once he was ensconced in his bedroom, pacing the short path between his bed and his wardrobe as it rang out.

Molly answered on the second ring. "Sherlock," she said, alarmed. "What's-?"

"I need you to come to Baker Street," Sherlock broke in, ignoring her shock at one of his rare phone calls.

"Yes. Yes, okay." There was a clattering in the background as Molly started to gather her things in a hurry.

"Ah," Sherlock said, belatedly registering the rising panic in her voice. "Nothing's wrong. But, I do need you here urgently."

The noises on her end stopped. "Sherlock," Molly said, blowing out a loud sigh. "I'm at work. What's this about?"

"Molly," Sherlock cajoled, drawing out the 'y' into a long 'ee'. "I'll explain everything when you get here. Promise. But do hurry."

Contrary to his expectations, his cheerful tone did not ease Molly's tension. "Are you okay?" she said. The words echoed back to a long ago day in the lab at Barts; the first time she had surprised him, and changed the course of their relationship forever. "Sherlock?"

He shook himself, realizing that his silence had extended a beat too long while he was caught up in remembrances. "Yes, I'm okay," he said in a much more subdued manner, still a little bemused at his train of thought. If Molly hadn't asked him that exact question that day, proving her own observational skills in the process, he might have never considered asking her for help in faking his death. Then who knew what would have become of them.

They might have never become close. And _that_ was entirely unacceptable.

"I'm on my way," Molly was saying as Sherlock broke out of his musings a second time. He heard a car door slam, and she lifted the phone away from her mouth just long enough to give the cabbie his address. "Don't-" Her voice trembled, and Sherlock frowned. "Don't do anything until I get there, do you understand? _Anything_."

Really, what did Molly think he was going to do? Well, the twenty minute journey was more than enough time for him to drive his client into a frothing rage, were he so inclined, but-

Oh.

Molly didn't know about the client (whom he hoped was still in his sitting room; he did not want to have to run out and track him down under these circumstances), so she couldn't be talking about that. Sherlock shifted his feet guiltily as he realized exactly what she was thinking.

"I'm not going to, Molly," he said, making an effort to smooth his voice and sound extra reassuring. "It's not what you think. I'm not using, or thinking of using. I promised, didn't I?"

She was quiet for a moment, and Sherlock could see her clearly in his mind's eye, curled tightly into the corner of the backseat of her cab, pinched lines around her eyes, mouth nothing but a thin line. "You promised you would call," she said at last, "if you were having a bad day."

"I did. I do," Sherlock was quick to reassure her. "It's not a bad day." His eyes flickered uncertainly towards the closed bedroom door. "It might be a good one." he allowed at last. "Please come."

Molly sighed. "I already left work," she said, though it sounded more like she was convincing herself of her actions than assuring him. "But I'm not making a habit of this, Sherlock."

"I'll see you when you get here," Sherlock said, and rang off.

…

"Okay, Sherlock," Molly said loudly as she hit the landing. "Are you going to tell me what-?"

The door swung open, preceding Molly's entrance into his flat. Both her tirade and her forward motion stopped on the threshold as she caught sight of Sherlock's client, who had turned at her rather dramatic entrance.

For a moment, the pair just stared at one another, rather like a lead couple in one of those romantic movies that Molly secretly loved. (Sherlock had watched all her favorites, for research of course.)

"Oh, I um," Molly stuttered. "Sorry, I didn't realize that, um..."

Her eyes flickered ever so briefly towards Sherlock, but quickly skittered back to look at the client. A pink blush painted her cheekbones becomingly as she pressed her lips together in a shy smile. Molly nodded to his client. The client smiled widely in response.

Sherlock threw up in his mouth a little.

"Molly," he said loudly, drawing her attention. She jumped, then narrowed her eyes at him dangerously. "About time you made it here. I want you to meet... ah..." Sherlock faltered, wracking his brain for the man's name.

"Michael," he said, stepping towards Molly with his hand extended. "Michael Perfect."

"What?" Sherlock sputtered in amusement. And, although he'd not own it, more than a little alarm.

Mr Perfect (really? _really??_ ) shrugged with a self-effacing smile.

"I'm Molly Hooper." She shook his hand warmly, then looked over Mr Perfect's shoulder to pin Sherlock with a dangerous look. "Sorry, but can you excuse us? Just for a second? Sherlock?" Molly jerked her head towards the door, before turning on her heel and walking out, giving Sherlock little choice but to follow her out of the flat and down the stairs to the entry hall.

"What the hell, Sherlock," she hissed as soon as they were out of earshot. "Did you call me out of work to set me up on a date? With one of your _clients_?"

"Yes?" Sherlock said warily.

Molly dropped her head into her hands, groaning loudly. "Oh my God, Sherlock," she said. "You can't just..." She inhaled loudly through her nose and lifted her head to glare at him. "You just don't _do_ this." She stamped her foot for emphasis.

Tamping down a smile, as Sherlock suspected Molly wouldn't appreciate his amusement at her (rather adorable) tantrum, he said mildly, "But Molly, you like him."

"I don't even know him!" Molly shrieked. "And for that matter, neither do you. I don't care what you've deduced about him, that's not the same thing. And if you've said more than ten words to the man, I'll be buggered."

"I didn't know you were into that – OW!" Sherlock yelped when Molly grabbed his earlobe and yanked savagely. "You're very violent today, Molly," he said with a pout, rubbing his abused ear for extra effect.

She did have the grace to look abashed, but it was quickly wiped away as the door to 221A opened up and Mrs Hudson stepped out.

"Sherlock?" she said. "What's going on- oh hello, dear."

Molly forced a smile for the older woman. "Hello, Mrs Hudson. Sorry about the noise. Sherlock is trying to fix me up with his client."

"Oooh," Mrs Hudson squealed, clapping her hands together "You mean that nice young man? Such a polite boy, quite the gentlemen. And not bad looking, dear. If I were twenty years younger..."

Sherlock tuned his landlady out with the ease borne of loads of practice. Judging by the color of Molly's face, Mrs Hudson was waxing poetic about Mr Perfect's perfect bum.

Molly made a skeptical face. "Oh, I don't know, really, Mrs Hudson. I mean, one of Sherlock's clients? You know the sort he usually gets. He'll probably turn out to be an ax murderer."

"Nonsense," Mrs Hudson clucked, flapping her hands. "Sherlock would never put you in any danger, would you dear? I'm sure he's been properly checked out."

Good old Hudders; always had his back. "Quite right, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock said. Behind his back, he started typing out a quick message on his phone, belatedly requesting a background check on Mr Perfect from Mycroft.

Something dinged inside Mrs Hudson's flat, and she excused herself, leaving Sherlock and Molly alone in the foyer once more. Molly said nothing when the door to 221A closed, but settled on staring at Sherlock through narrowed eyes, mouth pinched unhappily.

"See?" Sherlock said, gesturing expansively. "Mrs Hudson agrees. Nice young man. Also likes cats." He added the last suddenly, as that observation from earlier finally filtered into his consciousness. "Why don't we just-?"

"What did you tell him?" Molly said flatly. "About me, I mean."

Sherlock frowned. "I haven't said anything yet."

"What are you going to say? Here's my friend Molly Hooper, a dried up spinster so desperate for a date that she needs Sherlock Holmes' considerable skill to find someone that will actually tolerate her."

Alarm coursed through him like a lightening bolt when he realized there were tears pricking in the corner of Molly's eyes. "I wouldn't-" he stammered, "I wouldn't say that."

She sighed, rubbing at the corner of her eye. "No, of course not. But what's he going to think, Sherlock?" Molly nodded up the stairs.

Oh. Well, he really had bollocksed this up, hadn't he? Only, he'd been so certain that this client was the right one that he'd jumped the gun. Not out of excitement, but the churning in his gut that had started right about the time he realized that Mr Perfect was … well, perfect had made him want to get the initial introduction out of the way as quickly as possible. Rather like ripping off a bandaid.

"I," he said, stricken with the realization, "I am sorry, Molly. I didn't consider that."

Molly tugged out the tie holding her ponytail and dragged her hands through her hair, finger combing it into place before replacing the tie. "Listen, Sherlock," she said, far more gently than he deserved under the circumstances. "It's okay, you know, if this doesn't work out. Maybe there just isn't anybody out there for me, and Sherlock," she grabbed his hands, forcing him to look her in the eyes to see her sincerity, "that's okay. You know I really appreciate what you're trying to do, but I don't need a boyfriend to be happy. I have you." Molly colored and added quickly, "And John, and Rosie, and everybody else."

Sherlock didn't know what to say at first, but he slipped his arms around her, tucking her close and bending down to put his temple against hers. So when the words came, he said into her ear, "Promise me you're happy, Molly."

"I promise."

"And promise me you'll say if you aren't." This time she hesitated, so he said, "Molly?"

Molly pressed her face into his neck and said, "Yes. I promise."

"Good. Thank you." Sherlock backed up just enough to kiss her cheek before he released her altogether. He graciously ignored the tears that Molly was wiping away and nodded towards the stairs, "Right. Well, I'll just go explain..."

"No," Molly said quickly. "I will explain. You can go do whatever is necessary to solve his case."

Sherlock made a face. "Boring. It's barely a three." While waiting for Molly to arrive, he'd gathered enough information to confirm his and Mr Perfect's suspicions about the embezzlement being perpetrated at his workplace.

"Then it won't take you long," Molly pointed out reasonably. When he didn't head for the door fast enough for her liking, she quirked an eyebrow at him. "It's the least you can do. How long have you had him waiting up there, anyway?"

Grumbling to himself, Sherlock did as he was bid, realizing that it was fruitless to try and go against her on this. Or anything, really, he thought with a rueful smile as he headed down the street, texting Lestrade.

It took a little over an hour to sort everything out, and only that long because Lestrade couldn't contain his curiosity over why Sherlock was involving himself in such a mundane case. He didn't shut up until Sherlock finally explained that Molly was behind it, and only then after a coughing fit that sounded suspiciously like smothered laughter.

Upon his return, Sherlock was greeted with the sound of laughter floating down the stairs, and he was startled to realize that it was distinctly a man and a woman. The woman was clearly Molly, but the man's wasn't one he recognized. It had to be his client, and stepping into the flat confirmed his suspicions.

Molly and Mr Perfect were sat on opposite ends of the couch. A tea tray with a couple of empty but used cups and the remnants of Mrs Hudson's scones was on the coffee table. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the cheerful and eager way that Mr Perfect regarded Molly, but the expression smoothed away when he caught sight of Molly's effusive smile.

"Oh, hello, Sherlock," Molly chirped when she noticed him. "Sorry, we'll get out of your way. Mrs Hudson insisted we have some tea, and Micheal and I lost track of time." She turned back to Mr Perfect, positively sparkling with pleasure at his company.

Sherlock's gut started churning again. It took a good deal of his superior brainpower to pretend that it wasn't.

...

Sherlock unlocked the door to Molly's flat, calling out as he entered. Her answer rang from the direction of her bedroom, and was cheerful enough to ease the tightness in his chest that had been lingering since he received her ambiguous text asking for a favor.

He really needed to stop drinking John's coffee. Really, it was rich that the man had the gall to scold Sherlock about his dietary habits when the sludge he regularly drank had enough caffeine in an eight ounce serving to give an elephant a heart attack, if the way his heart had been pounding was any indication.

Rubbing absently at the left side of his chest, Sherlock pushed open the bedroom door and stepped straight into a disaster zone. The entirety of Molly's wardrobe had been dumped onto her bed, everything from casual jeans and t-shirts to a few flashy, fashionable blouses and skirts that didn't look like anything Molly would buy, much less wear. Hung up … well, everywhere she could hook a hanger were as assortment of dresses. Including, Sherlock noted with a wince, the little black number she'd worn to that Christmas party years ago.

"Thank you so much for coming," Molly was saying in a rapid babble. "I have a date with Micheal, and I-I don't have anything to wear."

Sherlock blinked rapidly a few times, eyes darting over the room. "Huh," he said. "Didn't think people did this sort of thing in real life."

"Oh shut up," Molly said sullenly. "This whole thing is your fault, so please just help me."

"I see you've picked _something_ out already," Sherlock said, nodding to the lacy, matching set of lingerie spread out on her pillow.

Molly squeaked and dove for them, shoving the items unceremoniously under the pile of clothes, much to Sherlock's relief.

No, no, of course he wasn't relieved. They were only underwear. Nothing to be embarrassed about, despite the current color of Molly's face. If his own face felt warmer than usual, then it was because Molly kept her flat on the toasty side.

"I'm not..." Molly shifted uncomfortably, finally sitting down on the pile of clothes under which she'd hidden her knickers. "I'm not a slag, you know. It's only our first date, I mean. I'm not going to..." Molly flapped her hands, blushing even brighter. Then, in a small, but determined voice, she said almost defensively, "They make me feel pretty."

Sherlock's first thought was that Molly was always especially pretty in yellow. His second, close on the heels of the first, was a curious query as to what she typically wore under her work outfits. That one was very quickly shoved into the deepest recesses of his mind palace, out of sheer self-preservation.

(But not, as Sherlock was to discover in the weeks to come, deleted.)

"Sherlock?" Molly said. Sitting right on the pile of clothes, she picked up one of the flash blouses and spread it over her lap, fingers smoothing out the satin absently. "I just … I really want to make a good impression."

He glanced around with a little bit of dismay. "This is a girl thing," Sherlock said. "Don't you have … girlfriends? Friends who are girls? That sort of thing?"

"Well, yes, but," Molly fussed a bit more with the blouse. "They're … well, they're just not …" Sighing, she picked up the blouse and held it up to her chest, looking down at herself with pursed lips. As she modeled it thus, it looked even less like something Molly Hooper would ever wear, and Sherlock finally pinged onto the fact that these incongruous bits of her wardrobe were things her friends had talked her into buying at some point, only to languish forever at the back of her closet.

"Anyway, they mean well," Molly continued, setting the blouse aside. "But they're always really, um, encouraging? Right now, I just need an honest opinion."

Very unwillingly, Sherlock's eyes were drawn back to the black sheathe. _You always say such horrible things_. And he did. He always had, as Molly well knew, so why...?

"You were right about Micheal," Molly said. She scoffed. "You're always right. It's irritating." Despite the sour tone to her words, her eyes sparkled, and Sherlock ventured a smile, which she returned. It dropped away a moment later, and she was back to fidgeting. And once again, Molly answered his question with his needing to verbalize it first. "I really … I really like him, Sherlock. I don't want to mess this up right out of the gate."

Sherlock considered the list they had made a few days ago. All those first dates, and so few of them succeeded by a second. Only natural that she would worry that so many failures were down to her, as the common element in all of them. (Which was obviously incorrect. Sherlock couldn't help but be amazed that so many men were so blind when it came to Molly Hooper.)

But Molly, as always, had picked herself up and was determined to try again. And, as always, Sherlock found himself a little in awe of the indomitable woman, who despite her rather plain packaging never ceased to impress him with the stuff hidden underneath.

A smile touched the corner of his mouth, and Sherlock gestured for Molly to stand up. "Where are you going?" he asked as he flicked through the pile of clothes, automatically discarding the things that didn't suit her style. Molly just wasn't Molly when she wasn't clothed in her particular brand of colorfully twee outfits. The black dress was proof enough of that.

Sherlock paused when Molly named the restaurant that Mr Perfect had picked. It was exactly the sort of place that he would chose to take Molly, nice but not too fancy; Molly would be uncomfortable in a posh restaurant, so not a good choice for a first date.

An anniversary maybe. Very briefly, Sherlock's mind wandered to an image of Molly wearing a vintage tea dress and a brilliant smile.

Shaking his head to clear it, Sherlock fished out an earthy red mid-length skirt with a lot of swish and a patterned blouse that picked up on the red to match and held them out. "Here."

Molly eyed the combination dubiously. "Are you sure?"

"I came all this way," Sherlock pointed out, pushing the clothes at her again.

This time Molly took them, although her skepticism remained as she shook out the skirt before draping both items over her arm. "I like this outfit," she admitted, "but it's not very flashy, is it?"

"Molly," Sherlock interrupted with an audible sigh. He reached out and cupped her cheek, drawing her eyes to his. "You don't have to be 'flashy'. The only thing you have to be is you. And if this Mr Perfect of yours doesn't appreciate it, then-"

_I will break his nose. And have John set it, so I can break it again. Then convince Mycroft to deport the stupid fuck on the grounds that doing so will be a vast improvement to the nation_ _al average_ _in every metric he deigns to measure_ _._

Sherlock favored her with a gentle smile. "-then he's not worth your time."

Leaning forward, he pressed a kiss to Molly's forehead. If he lingered a bit longer than necessary, neither of them made mention of it.

When he pulled back, Sherlock let his gaze flicker over her face. Just days ago, in the lab, Molly had reacted gratifyingly – _no_ , alarmingly – to the same proximity and rather less physical contact. But today she seemed … pleased. Peaceful. Unagitated by his presence. Detached, almost; he could see the direction of her thoughts in her ever expressive brown eyes – back to her date with the _dazzling_ Mr Perfect.

Molly slipped her hands on either side of the one still cupping her cheek, drawing it away from her face and gripping it loosely. "Thank you," she said, smiling up at him shyly. "Thank you for everything, Sherlock."

The words sounded very final, he noted with a bolt of alarm. But... this was what he wanted. Because underneath her thin veil of nerves, Molly Hooper was excited about this date. And, most importantly, _happy_.

Sherlock cleared his throat and spun back to the pile of clothes. "Yes. Right. Well." Under his breath, he muttered as he dug around, "Where is that-? Ah!" Coming up with the cherry print cardigan, he tossed it Molly's way. "You'll need this. You always get cold. And you should wear flats – those black ones, I think. You know you're useless in heels, Molly."

Molly huffed, but she didn't refute his point. Even in kitten heels she was a bit of a disaster.

"You did ask for an honest opinion," Sherlock said with perfect innocence. "Right. Now your hair..." Molly wrinkled her nose, and Sherlock held up his hands. "Might I _suggest_ ," he stressed the word especially, "wearing it down? You look nice with it down."

"Oh." Molly flushed, but the pinkness in her cheeks wasn't at all on par with what her reactions had been prior to Mr Perfect.

Well, and perhaps all those false compliments he'd paid her over the years had inured her to a genuine one.

"So," Sherlock said. Molly was making significant eye contact with the door, trying to usher him out so she could get ready, but he was feeling uncooperative for reasons he didn't care to probe. "I suppose you no longer need a date to that charity thing."

Which was a relief. Really. He would have done, of course. That was one of those 'friend' things that people did. But even an evening of making Molly laugh so hard she snorted as he ruthlessly deduced the fellow guests was not enough to make him actually _want_ to go to a party. Almost, perhaps. It was always fun making Molly laugh, even more so when she snorted, because she got so embarrassed about it.

"Well if tonight works out with Micheal, then, um, yeah. Maybe. I mean," Molly fidgeted with her sleeve, biting her lip briefly. "You could still come. If you wanted." She sounded as though she sooner expected an announcement that he was going to give up his work as a detective to pursue his lifelong dream of becoming a flower seller in Covent Garden a la Eliza Doolittle. "John is coming, I think," Molly continued in a rush. "Mike said he was going to invite him. And there's dancing, I know you like that-"

Sherlock was suddenly assaulted with a vivid image of Molly in some saccharine confection of a puffed up ball gown … while waltzing with Mr Perfect.

"No," he interrupted shortly, then forced a smile which narrowed his eyes unpleasantly. "Parties," he said airily. "Not really my thing."

If Molly looked disappointed, he was certain it was only his imagination. The expression was wiped from her face almost as quickly as it appeared, replaced with a slightly wicked (intriguing) smile. "You aren't off the hook yet, Sherlock," Molly said tartly. "If tonight's a disaster, I'm holding you to your promise."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Nothing for me to worry about then," he quipped. Then, softer, "You'll be fine, Molly. Trust me."

"Don't I always?" she said, only partially joking. Molly's eyes softened and sparkled with that old admiration as she looked up at him.

Usually, the expression made him queasy – these days it was from guilt, and Sherlock was not proud to admit that early on it had stemmed from disgust – but at the moment, he found himself basking in it. Surely it was on it's way to extinction, at least while aimed at him.

"Thanks again for coming," Molly said. "And, and all your help, really."

Finally, Sherlock gave into Molly's hints and started towards the door. "You know how to thank me," he said. At the doorway, he stopped and peeked back over his shoulder, grinning broadly at the thoroughly peeved set of her eyebrows as she stared back at him. "Do try to have a boy, will you? Save us all those tedious arguments about what to name it."

That startled a laugh out of Molly, and, still smiling, Sherlock left, considering his work well done. The smile slipped off of his face as he shut the flat door behind him and started down the steps to the ground floor. His thoughts were caught up in a new series of images of Mr and Mrs Perfect – Molly in a white dress walking past him down the aisle, Molly rounded with pregnancy, Molly holding a baby boy with a head of dark curls and her chocolate brown eyes...

Starting down the sidewalk, Sherlock fished his phone out of his pocket with trembling fingers. They did that from time to time. Years of abusing heroin and cocaine had left their mark, that was all it was.

He glanced down at his (silenced) phone and stopped short in surprise. Five missed calls from brother dearest. Either there was some sort of national emergency, or Mycroft's favorite cake shop had a sale on.

The phone buzzed in his hand as he was looking down at the screen, and Sherlock answered it with a quick swipe. "What is it, Mycroft?"

Whatever scathing thing he'd meant to say (Sherlock and Mycroft were closer since Sherringford, but that certainly didn't mean they had to be _nice_ ) died in his throat at his brother's response.

"She wants to see you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Sherlock finally gets a clue! And nobody has to whack him over the head with a cricket bat, even! (Although John is tempted at least once.)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, look, I know I keep promising 'one more chapter to go' but I swear I finally got this plotted out and there will be one last chapter and that's it.
> 
> Come visit me on tumblr (ll-again) if you are so inclined. I've been posting crack ficlets over there because I have no self-control.

"You took your time," Sherlock said as he slid into the backseat, next to his brother.

Mycroft didn't look up from his phone. "I did say I was likely to be late," he pointed out, tapping away at the screen. "You're lucky I was able to be available at all."

Settling back against the leather, Sherlock closed his eyes to the passing scenery. "Hm. And which country's democracy are you subverting today?" He slit open his eyes just in time to see Mycroft's sideways glare and didn't bother to hide his smirk.

"Never you mind." Mycroft tucked his phone into his breast pocket. "If you were in such a hurry to see our sister, we could have gone last night."

After Eurus' takeover, the security measures in place at Sherrinford had been overhauled, meaning that Mycroft had to personally accompany Sherlock to the prison. Although it was annoying, it was also apparent that they couldn't trust Sherrinford's staff to be allowed to make exceptions to rules. Sherlock took some solace in the fact that at least he had a legitimate excuse to cause his brother some minor inconvenience.

"I was busy," he said.

"Yes, and how was Miss Hooper's date with the impeccable Mr Perfect?"

Sherlock didn't dignify that with a response. As long as one didn't count the thinning of his lips from pressing them together to keep his mouth shut.

"Successful, I'd say," Mycroft continued, "given the lateness of the hour when she was returned to her domicile."

Sherlock's head snapped to the side so he could favor Mycroft with the full weight of his glare. "I thought he passed his background check," he said through gritted teeth. If Mycroft had found something and was using Molly as bait, Sherlock was going to pummel him, legalities of beating up the British Government bedamned.

"Hm? Yes, it does seem that Mr Perfect lives up to his name. Of course, a background check is an imperfect instrument. It doesn't, for example, account for other..." Mycroft folded his hands together, drumming fingers on knuckles as he searched for the word, "incompatibilities."

And that was the closest Mycroft would come to admitting any sort of affection or concern for Molly Hooper. Sherlock relaxed back in his seat, tapping his own fingers against his knee as he watched London pass by. "So you had her followed?" he asked, idly wondering if he should let Molly know.

Only if he could contrive to record the chewing out she'd give Mycroft upon learning about it, Sherlock decided. Some memories deserved to be preserved for posterity.

Mycroft observed his brother's beatific smile, and shifted in his seat. "I thought it prudent," he said mildly. "Although I doubt it will be necessary in the future. Given last night's events, it's clear that they are eminently _compatible_."

Sherlock grunted a wordless response rather than rise to Mycroft's bait. "You're wrong," he said after a minute. "Molly doesn't have sex on a first date."

"No?" Mycroft hummed. "As you say, brother dear. You know Miss Hooper best."

Sherlock ignored him for the rest of the journey to the airfield (the very one at which he'd boarded that flight to Eastern Europe and his certain death; Mycroft's way of getting him back for his inconveniently timed visit). He was likewise silent during the helicopter ride to Sherrinford, mind whirling.

Despite Mycroft's insinuations, Sherlock was certain Molly hadn't had sex with Mr Perfect. She'd said she wouldn't, and Molly always stuck to her guns, even in the face of temptation. Just one more thing to admire about her.

But of course, that state of affairs was unlikely to last. Molly liked sex, that much was obvious from the becoming glow about her when she'd been 'having lots' of it while still engaged. And that hadn't even been good sex.

Or so Sherlock assumed. He simply couldn't wrap his big brain around the idea that Tom 'Meat Dagger' Whatever-His-Surname-Was had any significant skill in bed. Whether or not Mr Perfect did remained to be seen, but Sherlock had a sinking feeling he'd get an accurate assessment from the quality of the smile on Molly's face.

…

"So are you fucking her yet?"

Sherlock had barely set foot in Eurus' cell when she spoke. He continued into the antechamber, stopping at the prescribed three feet from the glass, and stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets, facing his sister on the other side.

"Who?" he said.

Eurus, arms akimbo, stared him down with flat eyes. "Molly Hooper," she said after a moment. "Are you fucking Molly Hooper or not?"

Something warm coiled low in his gut. Sherlock ignored it, or at least, made a valiant attempt. "Why would I do that?"

"Oh, you're not. How boring. And after all the trouble I went through." Eurus flounced over to her bed, flopping down onto her stomach with an audible huff. "This was a waste of time," she said, voice muffled by her pillow but still clear enough to make out.

Sherlock took a second to glance around the room. It was bare bones, even for a cell. Just the furniture, a cup and a pitcher of water. Nothing else of note.

No violin. That had been the first thing they removed.

Not as punishment; punishment didn't work on Eurus. They didn't trust her with six strings after the way she'd shut down at Musgrave Hall.

Eurus' new doctors had been able to lift her catatonia months ago with a combination of medication and therapy. Sherlock's last visit had been just after she was up and talking again. But she'd sent him away, and he'd been advised to give her a chance to conduct their interactions on her terms.

There had been many times when Sherlock was tempted to tell the doctors to go hang, and make Eurus see him. But his sister had so little agency over her own life, and every time he thought of barging into Sherrinford, he'd reconsidered. And finally, his patience had paid off.

"You wanted to see me," Sherlock said.

Eurus made a noise, but remained face down on the mattress.

What was the right thing to do? There was a question to which Sherlock could never seem to find an answer, and now more than ever it was essential have one. With a hand tucked behind his back, fingers fidgeting, Sherlock stepped up to the glass, laying his other flat against the smooth surface.

(There was a slight shiver of anticipation just before he connected. Sherlock couldn't help but remember the last time he'd tried, only to find nothing separating them.)

"Eurus…" He paused. Licked his lips.

She popped up like a puppet jerked straight on its strings. Sherlock's foot slid back half a step before he could stop it.

"Don't," Eurus growled, eyes burning in their sunken sockets.

"I forgive you."

" _Don't say that,_ " she shrieked.

Sherlock's fingers trembled imperceptibly against the glass. The hand behind his back was clenched so tightly he knew he'd have marks from his nails pressing into his palm.

"Like it or not," he continued, putting all his effort into keeping his voice even, "I forgive you."

She hissed like an angry cat and jumped off the bed, pacing across her cell. "Shut up. _Shut. Up._ You don't mean it."

"I do. You're my sister." Sherlock swallowed. "I love you."

"You don't! You _can't_!" Eurus snarled, snatching up the cup and hurling it directly at his face. It bounced harmlessly off the bulletproof glass. Sherlock couldn't contain his flinch, although he did stand his ground admirably.

The door behind him slid open, and Sherlock knew their time was up.

"I'm coming back," he promised as he stepped away. "I'll come back to see you. Soon, if I can."

"Get out!" The water pitcher went flying next, landing with a louder thud and a splash just as Eurus' doctor escorted Sherlock through the door.

"That went better," the doctor said while they passed through security.

Sherlock grunted. "Better than you expected? Or better than last time?"

The psychiatrist was unfazed by Sherlock's scorn, but then, it was probably so mild compared to what he dealt with on a daily basis that maybe it didn't even register. "Both," he said, with a clinical smile. "We'll try again, maybe in a week or so. I'll be in touch."

The last was addressed to both brothers, as they'd just stepped into the room where Mycroft was waiting. Mycroft took one look at Sherlock and responded for them both, thanking and dismissing the doctor in the same breath.

"She is getting better," Mycroft observed, leading them back through the halls towards the helipad.

Sherlock knew, suddenly and with absolute certainty, that Mycroft had not yet been to visit Eurus since her return to the prison. But he also knew that Mycroft was, as he always had, keeping very close track of his sibling, and as such, his assessment was undoubtedly correct.

Drawing in an unsteady breath, Sherlock said, "She'll never be…"

Normal. Sane. Happy.

"No," Mycroft said when Sherlock trailed off, leaving the words unspoken. "No, I don't think so."

His regret was keenly felt by both parties.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "I'm still going to visit."

"If that's what you want," Mycroft said, betraying nothing of his opinion on the matter. "Shall I return you to Baker Street, or Barts?"

While they settled into the helicopter, Sherlock considered his options. Baker Street, Mrs Hudson, and freshly baked scones? Or Barts, his experiments, and…

"Barts," he said.

Mycroft nodded, unsurprised.

…

"When do you think you'll hear?"

Yesterday, Molly's preternatural understanding of his moods meant she'd stayed largely silent after Sherlock turned up in the lab. They'd spent a relaxing afternoon working side-by-side on their individual tasks. But today, she could no longer contain her curiosity about his visit to Sherrinford. He'd already given her a very abbreviated summary of events, but still she wasn't satisfied.

"Don't talk and work, Molly," he said, most of his attention on the debris he was inspecting under the microscope.

Molly's potential poisoning had turned out to be interesting enough that Lestrade had, as predicted, called Sherlock in on the case.

"Right," Molly said. "Sorry." Pinching her lips together, she bent over the assays she was preparing.

Sherlock finally lifted his head from the microscope, glancing over at her as he recognized the embarrassed sting hidden in her quiet words. God – and everybody, really – knew he'd evoked it from Molly enough that he should be quite familiar with it. Mostly these days, she was quick to call him out when his mouth ran away with him. She only gave him a pass when there was a life or death case before him.

But it was a stretch to even call this one a six and a half. He'd only taken it out of sheer boredom stemming from his lack of interesting cases lately. That, and because he'd realized that it was going to be one of those that was solved with labwork rather than legwork, and he fancied an excuse to spend another day in the lab.

Sherlock opened his mouth to say… well, he would have come up with _something_. Probably. But the door swung open at just that moment, and John and Mike entered.

"Hey, Molly!" John said, smiling widely upon seeing her. "I hear Sherlock found you a date. A decent one, this time."

Molly pressed her lips together the way she did when she was really happy. "Monkeys with typewriters, I guess," she said, dipping her head as a light flush spread over her cheeks.

"What?" Sherlock couldn't help but ask.

John rolled his eyes heavenward. "Infinite monkeys? Writing Shakespeare?"

"Oh." Sherlock blinked blankly at his microscope. That did sound familiar. "Probability theory. You mean I got lucky with Mr Perfect."

Mike, just barely and pretty badly at that, managed to suppress a snort of laughter, which was when Sherlock realized he'd said something funny.

"Yes, that was the joke," Molly said, swapping out a prepared rack of assay tubes for an empty set. Her eyes twinkled with humor as she glanced over at him.

Sherlock huffed, bending back to his microscope, determined to ignore the lot of them.

Unnoticed by Sherlock, John cast a quick, thoughtful glance his direction. "Mr Perfect, is it?" he said to Molly, sitting across from her at the wide table and leaning against the surface eagerly. "He must be something else. Tell me all about him."

"Goody," Sherlock muttered under his breath.

"Oh, no, um," Molly stammered. "That's his name. Michael Perfect."

"What, _really_?" John chuckled.

She leveled a look at John, who stopped laughing although he didn't cover up his lingering grin. It only took a quirk of Molly's eyebrow to wipe that away, however.

Watching them from the corner of his eye, Sherlock considered that Molly had acquired a whole new depth to her 'Mum' faces since becoming Rosie's godmother. And very effectively at that.

"It's a very old English name," she said. "From the French 'Parfait'; they came over in the Norman Conquest."

"If you say so," John said, still with an undercurrent of amusement that he couldn't shake. "So, is he, Molly? Perfect?"

John's cavalier attitude towards Mr Perfect was irritating. Sherlock had picked him, after all, so what else could he be? But then, John never had taken the task of finding Molly a partner seriously.

(He'd even laughed off the idea that Sherlock could ever be a godfather to Molly's child. John claimed that if Molly did have a baby, Sherlock certainly wouldn't be in the right position for the role. Whatever _that_ was supposed to mean.)

"Well, he's very nice," Molly said. "But we've only been on one date."

"Yes," Sherlock said acidly into his microscope. "Let's wait and see if Miss Hooper can even secure a second date with the peerless Mr Perfect before we start naming their children, shall we? Or, what the hell, why don't we get really crazy and hold out for a third?"

"Sherlock!"

At John's reprimand, Sherlock lifted his head, eyes darting over the stunned assemblage. In truth, he'd barely registered the words as they'd left his mouth, but he didn't need John's 'Not Good' glare to tell him he'd said something very wrong this time. Molly's pale, downturned face was enough.

She set her pipette down, pressing her hand against it briefly as her lips parted. "Well," she said. Molly drew in air slowly in a bid to keep the wet pooling in her eyes from spilling over. "I think I'm done here."

"Sure," Mike said, his voice almost normal. "See you tomorrow, Molly." Neither pathologist looked at Sherlock.

"Mo-Molly," Sherlock stammered just as she made it to the door. "I didn't- I still need those assays."

"Do them yourself," Molly spat. "You know how."

And she walked out, the door swinging shut behind her with a soft snick. Sherlock didn't stare after her, but his eyes were drawn to the half-completed set of assays she'd left strewn over her workstation.

"Nice," John said. "How are you such a cock? Do you practice in the mirror at home?"

Sherlock let the jab slide, for once. He also, he realized as he glanced from Molly's workstation to his own, was about to abandon a case, for the first time since … maybe ever. Although, he had his answer, or was fairly sure of it, and Lestrade had people that could verify the forensics needed to put the figurative nail in the coffin. Sherlock slipped off his stool, pulling out his phone to fire off a quick text to the Inspector, and followed Molly out, ignoring John's injunction to leave her alone.

As expected, he found her in the otherwise empty locker room. She was speaking into her phone, and he lingered in the doorway to listen and try and deduce who she'd called.

"Not out of the ordinary, I'm sorry to say. Just…" Molly sighed, trying to hold and dig through her purse with the same hand. "Well. I could use a drink. Pub? My treat."

There was a pause, and she said, "No, I know you can. But I want to." Another pause. "You can take me to dinner sometime to make up for it."

Molly turned slightly, and Sherlock could see her smiling in profile. Definitely Mr Perfect, he thought, ignoring the all too familiar twisting in his stomach.

"Okay, I'll…" Molly caught sight of him, the smile dropping off her face. "I'll see you in a few, Michael."

She hung up the phone, tucked it into her purse, and waited.

"I…" Sherlock faltered, licked his lips nervously. "I want to apologize."

"Is that right?"

Quite involuntarily, Sherlock thought back to the last time he'd cornered Molly in the locker room at Barts, the day he'd returned from the dead. She'd greeted him with an entirely different expression then. Right now, he'd settle for any expression; even fury would be better than this stony quiet.

"Yes," he said. "Molly, I didn't mean to-"

"Didn't you?" Molly cut in. Still, she displayed no anger. Just a resigned sort of disappointment that was so much worse. "No, I get it." Her eyes dropped down. "I do. Stupid of me not to see it coming. You felt guilty about what your sister did. You wanted – you needed – to fix things. And now that you have, Molly Hooper isn't interesting enough to be worth your attention anymore. Now, you can get back to what's really important."

Amazing that the one person who'd always seen him better than anyone was so wrong about this. But the words got stuck in his throat when Sherlock tried to explain. He'd never _had_ to before, not with Molly. "That isn't- You are important, Molly. You're my friend."

She shook her head, looking up at him through downcast lashes. "You say that, but it doesn't feel like it's true. You can't say I'm your friend, then dismiss me like I'm not even a-"

Sherlock reached for her as her flat tone started to ratchet up towards shrill. But Molly flinched away, and he snatched his hand back as if he'd burned it.

Molly held up her own slender hand, forestalling anything he might have managed to say. Her mouth twisted in a sour smile that faded as quick as it appeared. "You always go straight for the jugular. And you never miss, do you? Just…" Her fingers shook ever so slightly, but he was paying enough attention to notice. "Just leave me alone."

She brushed past him as she left, knocking against his arm when she squeezed between him and the doorframe. Sherlock remained frozen in place long after the click of her shoes against the tile could no longer be heard.

…

"You haven't been out of the flat in four days."

"Boring."

"Half of Scotland Yard is trying to get hold of you, you know."

"BORING."

"You know what, fine. Stay in and sulk. It's about time you realized how badly you treat people. Quite frankly, I'm astounded that it took Molly Hooper this long to tell you to piss off."

Molly, halfway up the stairs to 221B, cringed at the loud words floating down the stairs through the door of Sherlock's flat. Very likely, it was wide open; neither Sherlock nor John were in the habit of closing it, especially during the day.

Pivoting on the step, Molly tiptoed rather comically back down while someone – John, undoubtedly – stomped across the flat. She skirted around the banister and ducked next to the armchair in the foyer. Upstairs, the door was slammed hard enough that she could hear it bounce off the frame, and John came down the stairs like a raging bull.

Molly watched him exit the building a little guiltily, grateful that he hadn't seen her crouched down along the side of the stairs. But she just didn't have the energy to deal with angry John today. Not if she was going to face a sulking Sherlock after.

Hefting the grocery sack in her hand, Molly sucked in a fortifying breath and started a second journey up the steps. This time she made it to the top uninterrupted, although she wasn't yet sure whether or not to count herself lucky.

The door was ajar, and Molly nudged it open with her foot, stepping into the flat. Sherlock was curled into a tight ball on the couch, wearing a dressing gown over pajamas, but at least looking like he'd had a shower sometime in the last twelve hours. Sadly, she'd had enough experience with Sherlock in various states of disarray that she was confident in that assessment.

Maybe she'd picked up a few observational tricks from Sherlock over the years, because as Molly swept her eyes over the flat, she concluded that very little had been disturbed in days. Mrs Hudson hadn't been dusting either, which meant that Sherlock hadn't been out. So she could only conclude that he'd spent most of his time exactly as he was at the moment.

"Hello," she said, dropping her bag on the coffee table and shedding her outer layer, hanging it next to Sherlock's Belstaff. It wasn't her most cheerful greeting, but when she looked back, Sherlock had unfurled some, which loosened the anxious knot in her chest.

"Why are you here?" he asked. "Thought you'd have better things to do than visit." There wasn't any heat to his words, for all that he was still wallowing in a grade A snit.

He also hadn't told her to piss off, something he was never shy of doing when he didn't want her around. Molly couldn't help the smile that touched her lips. "Nope," she said, popping the 'p' in a decent imitation of him. "This is where I need to be today, I think." She squeezed between the couch and the coffee table, tapping his ankle, "Budge up."

For a second, she was sure he'd direct her to any one of the empty chairs in the sitting room, but after a beat, Sherlock pulled his knees up so she could sit. He rested his bare feet on her thigh once she'd settled, and she lay her hand on his calf absently, pinching a bit of his pajama bottoms between her fingers and rubbing the soft cotton.

"Greg said you aren't taking any cases."

"Nothing interesting on," Sherlock said, still talking to the back of the couch. Molly 'hm'ed, but didn't outright call him out on the obvious lie. They sat there for a while in silence, only the sound of their breathing between them, until Sherlock broke it. "I am sorry, Molly."

She drew in a long breath. Let it out again. "So am I."

Sherlock scoffed loudly. "Why should you be?" With seamless grace, he sat up, pivoting to sit cross-legged facing her. "You didn't say anything out of line."

"Maybe not." Her hand was lying loosely next to her leg where it had dropped when Sherlock jerked away. Warm, long fingers curled around hers, picking up her hand and turning it over, thumb running idly over her knuckles. Molly didn't look at him as she spoke, "But it was unfair. I know you didn't mean … what you said."

So she'd told herself countless times over the four days since their argument. It was still hard to believe, because while Sherlock frequently forgot to mind his words, the observations he made were rarely wrong. And the worst of it was that he knew – _he couldn't not know_ – how insecure she was about dating, given her history with it.

Maybe she was hopeless, and that … well, it wasn't fine, but sometimes she really did wish that someone would just come out and tell her. Then, at least, she could get her ten cats and resign herself to spinsterhood, which was preferable to the ups and downs of constantly trying and failing at relationships.

Sherlock made a wordless, unhappy noise that she couldn't quite classify, and touched her chin to encourage her to look at him. "Molly," he said, those mercurial eyes gleaming with guilt. "I _didn't_ mean it. And," he took a breath, his palm sliding over her cheek, "it's _not true_. There is nothing wrong with you, Molly Hooper. You're … everything," the tip of his tongue darted out to wet his lips, "all the things you should be." He lifted his hand from her face to ruffle his curls, an unsatisfied frown set along his brow and his mouth.

"Perfect?" Molly said, voicing the word he'd obviously been trying to avoid.

Sherlock ducked his head as he smiled, and she returned it with a small smirk of her own. "But you are," he said, dropping back into solemnity. Molly twisted around so they were face to face on the couch, but Sherlock stopped her as she opened her mouth, reaching out to hold her by the shoulders. "No one really is, I know. But you, Molly Hooper, you're smart and selfless and loyal. And even if the whole world is too stupid to see it, that doesn't make any of those things untrue. It's the world that's in error, not you."

Molly sniffed, suddenly aware of the tears dripping down her cheeks. She tilted forward, sliding effortlessly into his embrace, locking her own arms around his waist. Sherlock's cheek came to rest on the crown of her head as she nuzzled into his shoulder, wiping her wet eyes against the cool silk of his dressing gown.

"And you're pretty," Sherlock said. His deep voice rumbled through his chest and into hers. "I forgot that one."

Molly turned her head to the side, resting her temple against his collar. "Do you really think so?" she said, cringing even as the question was being asked. Though she hated how pathetic it made her sound, she still really wanted the answer.

Sherlock slid a hand along her back. "I don't need to think you're pretty, Molly," he said. "You _are_ pretty. Ask Greg or John if you don't believe me."

"Oh," Molly whispered. Her heart was beating so furiously she wondered if Sherlock could hear it. "Oh, well, that's…"

"What?" Sherlock said, shifting in discomfort, although he didn't release her. "It's a fact. It's not like-"

"No, I just mean it's still weird to hear you call Greg by the right name."

Sherlock choked on a laugh, and Molly could breathe again as the tension between them dissipated. Whatever thought she might have entertained of ending their hug was wiped away as Sherlock's arms tightened around her infinitesimally.

"You were right, you know," he said, chin propped on her head as he rocked them side to side. "I always say awful things. I don't know why."

"Not always," Molly murmured. Then, because she couldn't help herself, she said, "Don't you?"

"No," Sherlock said, overlapping her question as he finally let her go, leaning back to look down with solemn eyes. "I do know. It's easier, isn't it? Easier to strike first than wait to get hurt. I- I don't know when I came to expect that from everyone. Must've been before I met you."

"Was it bad? Seeing Eurus, I mean?" Molly asked, perhaps unnecessarily. He'd been so quiet the day of his visit, when he'd joined her in the lab after his return. And then so irritable the day after.

"It was …" Sherlock sighed. "Better than the last visit. But yes. Still bad."

It was Molly's turn to take Sherlock's hands in hers. "I'm so proud of you, Sherlock," she said. "I want you to know that. Even when you mess up and act like a total pillock, I know you're trying. And I know this last year has been…"

Molly trailed off, squeezing his hands. It still hurt to think about Mary. It hurt to think about Victor Trever, though she'd never known him, dying alone at the bottom of a well, and the subsequent horror those events had wrought on Sherlock and his family.

She freed one of her hands – a difficult task, because Sherlock had locked his fingers around hers – and lay it gently on his cheek. "You're a good man, Sherlock Holmes," she said. "And I'm so proud to be your friend."

Sherlock stared at her with a mix of shock and awe, mouth dropped open. Molly wondered how long it had been since someone had said they were proud of him, or if anyone had ever bothered to do so.

"I need you," Sherlock blurted so quickly the words bumped into each other. "I need you to be my friend." He reached out to touch her face, her hair. His eyes bored into her, as if he wasn't entirely certain she was real. "I don't know what I'd-" Sherlock stopped to suck in a breath. "I was sure I'd driven you off for good this time."

"Sherlock," Molly said, all too aware she needed to explain her radio silence over the last four days. "You hurt me, and I needed some time to cool off. But I love you, and I promise I'll never just abandon you, okay? Not if I can help it."

"You- still?" Sherlock stuttered.

Molly finally released his other hand, scooting back a bit to put a little space between them. Now would be an excellent time to forge some innocuous explanation about enduring friendships, but since Sherrinford and the phone call, Molly had no desire to lie about her feelings.

"Still," she said, lips quirked in a wry smile. "I do like Michael, a lot, but I guess I'll always love you a little. I think it works that way sometimes. More importantly, it's like I told you before: my feelings aren't your responsibility. You don't owe me anything, and," she let loose a short laugh, "you definitely didn't lead me on, so you've no need to feel guilty."

"If you say so," Sherlock said, still a bit wary, as he always was when her feelings for her were referenced. But he surprised her by leaning over and pressing a firm kiss to her cheek. "Thank you, Molly Hooper."

She had to force her mouth into a smile, but once she got started, Molly found a genuine one instead. "You're wrong about needing me, you know," she said. "You don't really. You're a lot stronger than you think. But still, I am glad you want me around."

"Well." Sherlock cleared his throat, letting his eyes slide sideways. They landed on the coffee table. "No one else brings me ice cream after I've been a total pillock. They're rubbish friends, really. Not much wonder why I like you best."

Molly's laugh rang clear as a bell, and Sherlock's deeper chuckles quickly joined in.

"Can you stay a bit?" he asked.

She nodded and stood up, heading for the kitchen to find spoons. "But we're not watching Jeremy Kyle," she said. Sherlock was flicking through the channels when she returned, so she reached for the bag she'd brought. "Okay, we've got mocha almond fudge…" Sherlock made a face. "And vanilla," Molly finished with a grin, handing him the second pint.

She grimaced as she opened up her carton. They'd talked long enough that it had gone soft around the edges, but even mushy ice cream was ice cream, so she dug in nonetheless. Next to her, Sherlock made a happy noise because he liked it this way, the nutter.

An argument spewed from the television set, and Molly bit back a sigh. "Really, do we have to watch this?" she said, gesturing at Jeremy Kyle's face on the screen.

"'S the only thing on," Sherlock said through a large mouthful of ice cream, ignoring the fact that obviously it wasn't. He swallowed. "Unless you'd rather watch reruns of that Prince woman."

Of course, Sherlock knew that Molly had gone off Connie Prince right around the time she'd stepped up her onscreen abuse of her brother, just before her death. "Oh, fine," she said with a long-suffering sigh. But a few sly deductions about the show's guests from Sherlock and she was wheezing with laughter into her ice cream.

"So," Sherlock said when the commercials came on. "How is Mr Perfect? You've been out with him again. Last night. Bought you dinner, did he?"

Molly didn't bother to ask how he knew. "He's fine. Except for being unemployed. No thanks to you," she teased.

Sherlock sniffed. "Hardly my fault that his employer was embezzling. Not that anyone cares, but it _is_ why he came to me." His eyes flicked sideways, meeting hers playfully. "Any prospects, then? Thought he'd get snapped right up by someone, or I'd never have set you up with him."

"He's got an interview at Barts, actually," Molly said.

"Better hope he doesn't get it." Molly frowned, and Sherlock couldn't hide his grin. "Well, you did swear most solemnly that you weren't going to … what was it? 'Dip into the company ink' anymore."

She rolled her eyes. "Shut up and eat your boring ice cream, Sherlock," she said, flashing her teeth at him just as he opened his mouth to launch into his usual rant about the depth and complexity of his favorite ice cream flavor.

Sherlock sputtered to a stop before he got started. Molly laughed until tears pricked at her eyes and Sherlock grumbled at her to be quiet because the show was back on.

…

Sherlock solved the case Lestrade had been after him to look over in less time than it took to brew a pot of tea, spent twice that amount of time complaining about the general incompetence of law enforcement the world over, then, over the next four days, dragged John on a frantic crime-solving spree that spanned the whole of London, as if to make up for his brief hiatus.

It satisfied everyone except for him.

He didn't notice it so much while he was in motion, but in the quiet between cases, Sherlock's chest echoed like an empty drum.

On the fifth day after her visit, Sherlock let himself into Molly's empty flat, palmed the key she'd given him shortly after his return from the dead, and wondered if he'd notice the weight of it missing from his key chain. It was such a small bit of metal, but it felt heavier in his hand than its mass allowed.

Eventually he pocketed his keys, settling into the chair he'd claimed as his. Why was it, he wondered, that the quiet didn't echo so alarmingly here? Molly's flat felt like more than just a bolthole, and he couldn't put it all down to the fact that she always kept his favorite tea and biscuits on hand.

Time slipped by unheeded while Sherlock let his thoughts wander without direction. As always of late, they returned to the thing that had been plaguing him: why had Eurus deliberately kept Molly out of harm's way? They hadn't thought to put her somewhere safe before going to Sherrinford, although Mycroft had secured Mrs Hudson and Rosie, and Sherlock's lungs burned cold with fear whenever he stopped to consider all the things that could have happened.

But Molly was fine. Eurus was … contained. His family, John and Rosie and the rest definitely included, were all well and thriving. He had the Work. Nothing was missing, despite this persistent itch that said otherwise.

Sherlock dragged his hands over his hair, cradling his skull as he bent over his knees. The lock on the front door clicked, but he didn't notice until Molly's strangled yelp caught his attention, and he shot upright.

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock. You scared me. Why are you sitting in the dark?"

Sometime while he'd been sitting there, the sun had gone down. There was some light filtering through the windows, enough to move around, but not enough to justify leaving the lamps off.

"I didn't expect you," Sherlock said, senseless of his words. "You're supposed to be out with your boyfriend."

"Michael's not my boyfriend," Molly said. "We've only been on three dates, and we haven't- Well, nevermind." Sherlock didn't need to look her way to tell she was blushing.

"Four dates," he said with a frown.

"Yeah, I'm not counting the night at the pub that I spent slagging you off."

"Right." Sherlock rubbed the brocade on the arm of his chair, tracing the patterns with his fingertips. "But isn't there a … thing? A third date thing?"

"Sometimes. It's different for everybody."

There were a dozen responses that came to mind, none of them polite, most of them insulting in one way or another to Mr Perfect's masculinity. So Sherlock held his tongue, moving his hand down to seek the outline of Molly's flat key in his trouser pocket.

Molly paused, toeing off her shoes, then asked quietly, "What are you doing here?"

"I..." Sherlock glanced around the dim room as if they were completely new surroundings. "I don't know."

Molly's brow furrowed deeply as she hooked her bag on the coat rack and walked over to his chair. Perching carefully on the arm, she asked, "Do you have a list?"

It took Sherlock an agonizingly long second to realize that she wasn't staring soulfully into his eyes, she was actually checking his pupils. Attempting to, in any case; the low light wasn't doing much for her diagnostics.

He shook his head in the slightest of sideways motions and said, "There's no list, Molly."

"Mycroft said-" Molly bit her lip to stop what promised to be a hysterical babble. Her hand curled warmly around the curve of his face. "I won't be angry, Sherlock," she said, "but if you took anything, I need to know what it was, okay?"

If. Mycroft, John, his parents, literally anyone else who knew him would have jumped to angry conclusions when presented with his uncharacteristic behavior. Not Molly Hooper.

"No, I didn't take anything," Sherlock said, looking up into her face, which hovered over his, taut with concern. "It's not a good day, Molly. But I … didn't." The last word came out unexpectedly with a little bit of amazement attached.

Molly's unease didn't evaporate at his explanation, but it did relax quite a bit as she evidently decided he was telling the truth. Pushing his curls back with her free hand, she leaned down and pressed a kiss to his forehead, right at the hairline. "Do you want to stay here tonight?"

No. It wasn't his place. He had to say no. He _needed_ to say no.

"Yes." A beat, and Sherlock added, "Please."

Molly smiled and slipped off the arm of the chair, leading him back to the bedroom. "I should still have some pajamas that fit you," she said, going to the wardrobe as Sherlock settled onto the edge of the bed to watch her bustle about with a distracted air.

She returned quickly with the sleep pants and old t-shirt that he'd left shortly after his return from the dead, when he'd first co-opted her flat as a bolthole. In those early days of being Sherlock Holmes once again, Molly's flat had been the only place he felt safe enough to sleep.

Sherlock took the clothes from her outstretched hands. His eyes flickered over her, cataloging every fidget. The nearly imperceptible downturn of her mouth. "This is a bad idea," he said.

Molly jumped, startled by his declaration, hands clutched together over her chest in a defensive pose. "No, it's okay," she said quickly. "I mean..." Molly let her arms drop and gentled her voice. "It's okay for tonight."

Sherlock set the pajamas off to his side and braced his hands on his knees. "And tomorrow?"

The look Molly gave him was fraught with pained sympathy. "We can figure out tomorrow tomorrow," she said. But Sherlock also understood what she was avoiding saying: with Mr Perfect in the picture, things had to change.

Interesting, that. In the days when Sherlock had first overtaken her bed, Molly had been engaged, and yet she had never seemed overly fussed about what her fiancé would think. Sherlock wondered how much the difference in attitude now was down to Tom's unsuitability, or...

 _I love you …_ I love you _._

 _You're my friend, Molly. I do love you. But that's all it can be. That's all_ I _can be._

It was during that first conversation after Sherrinford that Sherlock had silently resolved that he would step out of Molly's life, if that was what it took to secure her happiness. She deserved that much, after everything she had sacrificed to help him when he'd needed her.

And now it was time for him to uphold that promise. Oh, she wasn't kicking him out of her life altogether; he'd still see her in the lab, or at Baker Street during one of the inevitable events John and Mrs Hudson conspired to foist onto his social calendar. But this part of it – the part that belonged to just them – he needed to let go. It was apparent, even to him, that he should. He should stand up right now and walk out of Molly's bedroom, her flat, and her budding relationship with Mr Perfect.

Sherlock stood up.

But he didn't walk out the door. Despite his resolve to do so, he couldn't let go of this part. The Sherlock and Molly part. It was the only thing in his life – maybe since Redbeard's death – that was uncomplicated. It was tea at three am, truly awful morbid jokes, and soft sheets that smelled like lemons and chemicals. All the comforts of home.

And for the first time, Sherlock realized that it wasn't the _things_ that were important, but the woman behind them that made them so. He didn't know anymore how to be Sherlock Holmes without Molly Hooper at his side.

He stepped forward, breaching Molly's space, and bracketed his arms around her shoulders. Sherlock dipped his head, pressed his forehead to her temple. Squeezed his eyes shut.

Molly slipped her arms around his waist. "What do you need?"

He could feel the soft puff of her exhale against his face, just next to his mouth. His head tilted to the side, at an angle, and he felt Molly's sharp inhale against the sensitive skin of his lips, which now hovered just over hers. His hand lifted up of its own accord, and settled along the gentle curve of Molly's neck, his long fingers curling into the fine hair at her nape.

Molly's breaths shortened, each one a quick puff that fanned over his skin.

"Need? No," Sherlock said, "I don't- I don't _need_ you, Molly."

His thumb slipped up the line of her throat, along the tendon, seeking the steadying thrum of her carotid artery. With his eyes shut, Sherlock's formidable observation skills were constrained. Everything had narrowed down to Molly Hooper – the feel of her against his hands and his heated face; the subtle scent of her perfume and under that a faint tang of sweat; the sound of her breathing, interrupted as she swallowed.

"No," Molly said. "You don't."

Whatever else she meant to say – undoubtedly some upbeat tripe meant to be reassuring – was halted when Sherlock erased the scant millimeters between their mouths. It was hardly a kiss, just the barest of touches, feather light and lingering. Yet that simple contact sent a shudder traversing the entire length of his spine, from the base of his skull all the way down to his tailbone.

Molly, too, was shaking, in fine tremors that coursed through her petite frame. Sherlock lifted his head away from her, but she tilted her head back as he did, rising up on her tiptoes to follow him when he straightened, unhappy to be parted.

"Sherlock," she murmured.

He opened his eyes, only to find that hers were still closed, face turned upwards, the picture of everything he'd worked so long to convince himself that he didn't want. That was well and truly shot now. He could no longer pretend.

He didn't want to. Sherlock Holmes wanted Molly Hooper.

So, he dipped his head and kissed her, this time for real.

…

Kissing Molly was … it was … Sherlock didn't know what it was like. It wasn't the slow thrum of heroin pulsing through his limbs. It wasn't the sharp staccato of cocaine.

It wasn't like anything he'd ever experienced.

He had kissed and been kissed before. Plenty of times, by plenty of people, despite many opinions to the contrary. He had kissed men as well as women, more than a few of each, throughout his teens and early twenties. Sherlock didn't consider himself inexperienced or untutored at kissing.

But this was different. Molly was the differentiating factor. He'd always kissed for the sake of an experiment or a case. Molly was the first person ever he'd kissed just for the sake of kissing.

And Sherlock never wanted to stop.

His hands fluttered at her shoulders, her waist, and finally molded themselves to the swell of her hips. Molly's arms hooked around his neck. She gasped into his mouth when his thumbs brushed in and down, mapping out the iliac crest on each wing of her hipbones. With all her weight supported on the balls of her feet, Molly swayed heavily, and Sherlock carefully guided her heels back to the floor, following her down just as she had done in reverse moments earlier.

Their adjusted position only exacerbated their height difference. (Not that Molly was too short. Molly was perfect. _He_ was too bloody tall.) Sherlock nudged at her, encouraging her to take the few steps towards the bed, intending only to sit them at the edge, pull her closer and continue to lose himself in the soft slide of her mouth on his.

Sherlock didn't know how they'd ended up in the middle of Molly's modestly sized mattress. Had he passively followed Molly when she decided to lay back? Had she allowed him to guide her there so he could align his lanky frame over her own? Did it matter? No. The only observations worth making anymore were the sharp nip of Molly's teeth against swollen flesh of his lower lip, her breathy sounds when he returned the favor, and the way she kept pushing closer, trying to erase a gap that wasn't there.

He slipped a hand under her knee, moving her leg so he could settle more comfortably. Without conscious direction, his hand drifted, tempted upwards by the silky glide of the sheer fabric that stretched over her leg and disappeared under the hem of her skirt. Once he'd explored the length of her thigh, Sherlock's fingers wandered over the gusset of her tights, lightly at first then pressing firmer.

Molly tore her mouth away from his with an exquisite sob. Sherlock's cock – his awareness of which had been largely eclipsed by the novel sensory feast Molly had laid before him – throbbed in response, and in his distraction, his hand slowed.

"No," she moaned, head thrown back. "I mean … I mean, _yes_. Don't stop. P-please don't."

Some undignified sound left Sherlock's mouth. He didn't – couldn't – respond with words. Words needed thoughts to fuel them, and for once, Sherlock Holmes didn't want to _think_. He tucked his face into Molly's neck, suckling at her rapidly pattering pulse while his fingers did as bid and worked at the heated place between her legs.

Molly hooked a leg over his hip and tangled both hands in his curls, trapping him in a place he was perfectly happy to be. But a moment later, a strangled, frustrated groan escaped her. "No," she said, panting. "I need... I-"

Her hands left his hair, slipped between them and started fumbling at the waist of her skirt. It only took Sherlock a fraction of a second to catch on, and then their hands bumped together as they worked to divest her of skirt, tights, pants, socks, and shoes.

"Fuck, you're wet," Sherlock said when she was bared to his gaze. The words registered a second later, and his eyes flickered up to her face quickly, not sure if he'd said something Not Good.

"And pretty," he added.

Molly flushed, but her lips quirked into a smile. Sherlock leaned back over her and covered that smile with his own in a sweet kiss. His fingers sought out her slit without further prompting, sliding his fingertips along the wet flesh in a tentative caress.

"Tell me," he gasped. His fingers and his voice were both shaking. "Tell me what to do, Molly."

She didn't tell him. Instead, she reached down and showed him just the way to swirl his fingers. Ever the musician, Sherlock caught the rhythm of it quickly, playing her as deftly as he did his violin.

Molly's hands scrabbled at the duvet. Her spine arched up, her head fell back, exposing her throat, white as new snow but for the creeping flush ascending from her chest and the darkening mark he'd drawn onto her skin. Sherlock's eyes were locked on Molly, memorizing and cataloging her responses – and _good God_ , how she responded – to his every touch. A thousand experiments wrote themselves out along the edges of his vision, headed under 'Would Molly like it if he…?' Sherlock was determined to try them all.

He wet his lips, and croaked, "Molly…"

"Yes. Please, Sherlock…" Molly was panting so hard she struggled to form words. Her hand pushed at his, urging his fingers down to brush through her folds. "I need… in…"

Sherlock did as bid, slipping into her while simultaneously tearing through his mind palace as he searched for his very dusty volume on female anatomy. The detour was made well worth it when he found the right spot and Molly nearly levitated off the bed, babbling nonsense that was nevertheless encouraging.

"You're so pretty, Molly," Sherlock said, among the other, similar words that spilled from his mouth while he brought his other hand to pluck at the sensitive nub he'd been neglecting.

The sound Molly made when she came was unearthly: wild and beautiful and fey. And she went on for the longest time, shuddering around him as he worked her inside and out, both of them panting in great gulps for air. His skin felt stretched as he filled with pride at bringing her to this state and awe that she'd allowed it.

When she finally settled, he sat back on his heels, every fiber of his being aching with need. Molly relaxed bonelessly against the mattress, one arm flung over her eyes, still breathing hard. Naked only from the waist down, she looked nothing less than debauched, and Sherlock guiltily averted his gaze.

He'd been addicted to hard drugs for half his life. Three times he'd been through excruciating detoxes. Even at the worst of it, he'd never wanted a hit more desperately than he wanted to fuck Molly Hooper right now.

Molly hummed in contentment, shifting to move her arm off her face.

"I have to go," Sherlock said, nearly tripping as he clambered off the bed. He didn't hear Molly's quiet 'wha-?', too wrapped up in his own thoughts. "I'm sorry. I have to-"

Not even stopping to finish his sentence, Sherlock turned towards the door and fled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELP. That seemed like a good place to stop!
> 
> ...
> 
> ...
> 
> *casually bricks self into bunker*
> 
> (In better news, chapter 4 is about 60% done. John finally gets to give Sherlock that sex talk but is too grossed out to be smug about it. Sherlock actually pays attention to his best friend for once. I mean, sort of. And somehow everything works out okay for mostly everyone.)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, a huge thank you to all of you who have read/commented/kudosed/bookedmarked/subscribed! I've been so pleased at the response to this fic.

The slam of the front door snapped Molly out of her stupor.

Almost instantly, nausea overtook her, and Molly rolled onto her side, tucking her knees up into the fetal position as she breathed in carefully measured beats, tensely waiting for the turbulence in her guts to pass.

It did after a long few minutes, and Molly crawled off the bed. Crouching on shaky limbs, she pawed through the pile of clothes, her discarded ones mixed in with Sherlock's unworn pajamas.

Finding her pants, she slipped them on. Pulled off her cardigan and dropped it on the pile. Rubbed her bared arms and looked around her bedroom, feeling very much as if she was in an entirely unknown place, despite what should have been familiar surroundings.

Tears pressed like a heavy weight against the inside of her sternum, but as much as she'd like the relief of a good cry, Molly couldn't seem to get started. She felt altogether removed from herself. Scrubbing a hand over her face, she set her feet in the direction of the bathroom. The next thing she knew, she was gripping the edges of the sink with white-knuckled hands, staring at the mirror.

"Why are you so stupid?" she asked her reflection in a harsh voice she barely recognized as her own.

_What have you done?_

(Those words echoed too loudly in her head to find their way past the lump in her throat.)

Her reflection didn't have an answer on either count. She looked smudged, and it took Molly far too long to realize that the makeup she'd put on for her date with Michael hadn't held up to Sherlock's attentions.

A second later, she was laughing, high pitched and sour, as she stepped backwards twice and sank into a squat with her back to the wall. Her head fell into her hands as the noise out of her mouth morphed into something that couldn't be classified as laughter any more. But it wasn't sobs either, and God how she wanted to cry. She just couldn't. Not when everything was so tangled up inside her.

She'd always known that Sherlock Holmes had the ability to reduce her beyond words. Little had she expected that he'd ever do so twice within less than an hour, with two diametrically opposite actions. But that was just Sherlock and Molly, wasn't it? They'd danced and danced for years and every time she got used to the steps, he changed the music on her.

She actually wasn't a bad dancer, when given a chance.

Now she was laughing again, giggles that edged on hysterical, but some distant, clinical part of her mind noted that she wasn't hyperventilating so she just let it happen. When they ran out of steam, Molly pulled herself to her feet with her hands on the sink as leverage and started the shower. She shucked herself out of her clothes and stepped under the hot spray of water, leaning listlessly against the cold tile.

She didn't know how to fix this. She didn't know why she'd allowed it to happen, why she'd pushed things so far.

_you know why of course you do_

Work the problem, Molly told herself, shying away from _that_ line of thought.

Decades old advice from her father the electrician, ever the fix-it man. Words she'd heard all her life, and the real reason she'd chosen pathology as her specialty; the nitty gritty of diagnosing disease appealed to her because it was the methodology she'd been taught. Find the short in the wire – or the abnormal cells in a biopsy, or the chemical concentrations in a urine sample – and you had your problem. Solutions were easy to apply if you knew what was wrong and where.

In medicine, and in life, the solution didn't always stick, but at least it was a starting point. And Molly, like her dad, was a fix-it kind of girl.

Strip the wire, find the short, patch in a fix. And hope you didn't burn the house down when you flipped on a lamp.

Molly's dad had never burned down any houses, but she sure as hell had. Tom being the prime example. And now Michael…

_Work the problem, Molly._

They weren't the same thing. She'd never cheated on Tom; she wasn't official with Michael. But the underlying issue was the same, and rational or not, the _guilt_ was the same. She'd never set out to hurt anybody, but the fact remained that she had hurt Tom, and now she was going to have to break things off with sweet, understanding, stupidly perfect Mr Perfect.

But while he was perfect in all the ways that everyone said counted, Micheal wasn't right for her. No one could be, because Sherlock Holmes didn't just hold a piece of her heart now and forever, he had the whole damn thing tucked away somewhere in that mess of his.

(Stuffed right down into one of those Belstaff pockets, she expected. Between a weeks old moldy chip and a gem encrusted trinket he'd been awarded after solving some case or other.)

Michael, she'd sort out tomorrow. Molly still didn't know what to do about Sherlock. Even though he'd initiated things, it had been stupid to allow him to kiss her, stupid to keep kissing him, and stupid in the extreme to…

Everything from the tips of her breasts to her fingertips and all the way down to her toes tingled as she recalled the singularly spectacular orgasm Sherlock had teased out of her. Molly tried not to think of it; it felt perverse, wrong somehow.

It had been wrong. Not in the traditional sense – they'd both been willing participants – but Sherlock was not emotionally equipped for the complexities of adding a sexual element to their relationship.

Never mind a romantic one.

Clearly he wasn't. The fact that he'd fled after getting her knickers off was fairly solid evidence. And she didn't think he ever would be, on either count. She didn't want to be the kind of person who spent her life waiting on Sherlock, buoyed only by a sliver of hope, either.

(That way lay a Miss Havisham kind of madness; existing – not living – among the macabre symbols of a life that simply wasn't meant to be.)

But Molly had always found the strength to face up to life's disappointments. And she'd weather this one too, despite that Sherlock's latest rejection hurt nearly as much as losing her dad had.

Her breath hitched, and Molly became aware of the tears silently, finally streaming down her cheeks, mixing with the water that still beat over her. There weren't many, but they did loosen the bow-string tautness in her chest so she could breathe a bit better.

Molly scrubbed at her face with her hands, then a flannel and soap to get rid of the last of her makeup. Shampooed her hair because she knew it would be gross when it dried if she didn't. Didn't bother with the rest since she'd bathed before her date and nothing would wash away what had happened.

She pointedly ignored her rumpled bed as she dug out clean pajamas and dressed, then hung her towels back in the bathroom, finding solace in the mundane actions. Wandering into the living room, Molly went to get her phone from her purse and froze.

In the rush to get out of her flat, Sherlock had abandoned his coat.

Molly pressed a hand to her mouth, honestly not sure what she was feeling. Her fanciful thoughts about the location of her heart came back to the fore. She dismissed them almost immediately, but still couldn't stop herself from peeking into Sherlock's pockets.

There _was_ a moldy old chip, but none of the other things she'd imagined. Definitely not the bloody, still beating center of her cardiovascular system.

Shaking her head at her foolishness, she finally fetched her phone. Molly checked her notifications (nothing) and fiddled with it a moment before typing out a message to Mike. She dithered a few seconds more, and finally pressed send. Mike's answer came almost immediately.

> Feeling awful. Might take off tomorrow.  
>  Can you cover for me? **Mx**
> 
> **MS** No problem. Just take care of yourself.

Well, even if the rest of her world was falling down around her, at least Stamford had her back at work. The thought actually made her feel a bit better.

Molly sighed, looking aimlessly around the flat. Exhausted as she was emotionally, she was too on edge to contemplate sleep. Moreover, she didn't really feel up to facing the mess left behind in her bedroom.

(The literal one as much as the figurative.)

...

Sherlock swept through John's front door, calling out for his friend. He'd gone to Baker Street, but left again nearly as soon as he'd entered, unable to face the prospect of a night spent pacing his silent, empty flat. Nothing there was sufficient to distract him from his whirling thoughts of Molly's sounds or the way she'd tilted into his touch or...

Right. Breathe.

Sherlock sucked in a lungful of air. "John!" he yelled again.

This time, John came barreling out of the bedroom, buckling a belt around his waist. "Please tell me this is a case," he said quickly, eyes tight and serious. "And there's not some national emergency like Moriarty returning from the dead _again_ , or an invasion of Latvian anarchists or, God, Eurus hasn't escaped has she?"

"I gave Molly an orgasm."

John, halfway to the bag he kept packed for Rosie whenever they had to drop her off somewhere in a hurry, came to a full stop. In retrospect, Sherlock considered, his entrance had perhaps been a teensy bit frantic. Already too used to hitting the ground running when Sherlock summoned, of course John had overreacted.

He made choked noise that sounded awfully like a smothered laugh. "Sorry? You what?"

At the same time, Sherlock's brow furrowed. " _Latvian anarchists_?"

John rubbed a hand over his hair sheepishly. "First thing that popped into my head," he said. "I was watching this show... Not important. Let's get back to the part where you had sex with Molly. You are talking about Molly Hooper, aren't you?"

"Of course, Molly Hooper," Sherlock replied, oddly irritated at the insinuation. "And we didn't have sex. I gave Molly an orgasm. With my hand." He held up the appendage in question to illustrate his point, then found himself staring at his fingers as his brain decided to replay, in vivid detail, what they'd been doing just an hour ago.

Sherlock shook himself back to the present. John was also staring at his upraised hand with a mix of fascinated horror. "What?" Sherlock said, tucking his hand back into his pocket. "I washed it."

John cleared his throat. "Yeah, um. For the record, best to wash your hands before, too. If you give Molly some sort of weird infection from something you touched in that fridge of yours, she'll string you up by your bollocks."

Both men paused to wince at the thought, as undoubtedly true as it was. Molly Hooper, they had discovered over the years, was not a woman to mess with.

Sherlock slumped onto the couch, pulling his legs up and resting his chin on his knees for a proper sulk. "It's not going to happen again, John," he explained patiently. "Molly is going to marry Mr Perfect."

John's eye twitched when Sherlock's shoes made contact with his couch cushions. "Wait, _marry_?" he sputtered a second later. "Slow down. They've only been dating for two weeks."

"Twelve days," Sherlock muttered.

"Sherlock…" John blew out a breath and sat down opposite his friend, resting his elbows on his knees. His next words were spoken almost reluctantly. "You do realize you're in love with Molly. Don't you?"

The response was an impatient groan, and, "Yes, I love Molly. She's my friend-"

"I was there." John's solemn words fell into a sudden, deafening silence. "At Sherrinford. When you told her." Even the static hum of the baby monitor in the background seemed muted.

Sherlock froze, eyes fixated on the middle distance while his mind swirled too quickly to catch. But one thing remained clear. "I can't-" His voice cracked, and he had to stop and swallow. "I can't lose Molly."

And there it was; the thing he'd been struggling with for weeks. No. Years. As far back as his Fall, at least, Molly had been carving a place for herself in his life. By the time he'd noticed, she'd been so entrenched that Sherlock didn't think he'd survive the hole she'd leave behind. Not if her absence was his own doing.

Safest to be her friend. He didn't know how to do the other things.

"You can't keep Molly in a box," John said, "tucked up and safe with the likes of Mr Perfect." A shadow crossed his face. "You can't guarantee that for anyone, Sherlock," he said.

Sherlock flicked his eyes to meet John's, who was watching him with guilt set across his furrowed brow.

"You can't," John repeated for emphasis. "Life…" He sighed. "It just happens. Whether it's a bullet or a runaway bus. So _why_ are you wasting time sitting here with me?"

"He makes Molly laugh." Sherlock uncurled his legs and leaned heavily forward with his elbows braced on his knees, head hanging down. "He's perfect," he spat. "Of course he is. And he makes Molly happy."

" _Y_ _ou_ make her happy," John countered, jabbing a finger at him for emphasis. "Molly loves you. Or did you think she fell into bed with you just because it was convenient?"

Sherlock looked to the side, unable to answer and unwilling to explore that too deeply. It didn't matter – _it didn't_ – that John's affirmation made his breath catch and his pulse jump. Or that he'd liked 'falling into bed' with Molly, so much so that he wanted to do it again, always, until the sun stopped circling the Earth or they got so old that the falling bit became medically hazardous.

John was quiet for a moment, lips pursed. "What did she say? After?" He waved his hand, wiggling his fingers weirdly in a gesture that Sherlock supposed was code for orgasms.

"She didn't say anything."

"Nothing?" John said, skepticism evident. "Surely not. You can't be that good." He tipped his head back, eyes rolling heavenward as he realized, "You bloody left, didn't you? Molly didn't get a chance to say anything."

Sherlock's refusal to meet John's eyes was enough of an answer.

John leaned forward, raking both hands through his hair. Sherlock, used to such displays, ignored his antics. " _When_ did this happen?" John asked, his voice strained.

"I left Molly's eighty-seven minutes ago."

"You-!" John pursed his lips, looked away, and massaged his temples. Finally, he snapped, pointing at the door. "Go! Molly's. Right now. And say..."

"I forgot my coat."

"Do _not_ say that." John jumped out of his seat and grabbed Sherlock's wrist, bodily hauling him off the couch. "Say you’re sorry. Tell her you love her. Get on your knees and fucking beg. Promise her you'll do anything _and_ bloody well mean it."

Sherlock twisted his arm out of John's grip and fastidiously adjusted his suit jacket. "Is this a High Wycombe thing?" he asked with suspicion.

"Yes... no. No, Sherlock, this is better than High Wycombe."

There was something glittering in John's eyes that Sherlock hadn't seen since before Mary died. "Domestic bliss?" he ventured.

"Yes. That." John clapped his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, squeezing gently.

Sherlock looked down at his friend, opened his mouth, closed it again, swallowed hard, and, finally, nodded, jaw set with determination. John broke into a smile, giving Sherlock's shoulder a friendly shake before releasing him.

"Do not be your usual idiot self and bollocks it up," John said, cheerfully shoving him towards the door. Sherlock's feet moved automatically, letting John direct him.

Terror clattered through his limbs at the very real possibility. "I'll get fat."

John gave him a final push, thrusting his friend over the threshold. "Molly won't let you," he said, nodding just slightly to let Sherlock know that he understood.

Then he slammed the door in his face.

Sherlock stood on the step, shifting indecisively for a moment. It was nippy out. He felt stripped bare without the weight of his coat, but it seemed fitting, considering.

John shouted through the door. "I don't hear you going!"

"I'm going!" Sherlock shouted back. He turned around to look down John's street. "I'm going," he said again, quietly steeling himself.

…

Molly was on the couch when he returned, knees drawn up to her chest, watching the muted television with bleary eyes. His abandoned coat was spread over her like a blanket, and Sherlock swallowed, a little bit dismayed that he found the sight so fetching. On the table was an open bottle of wine and a glass with a thimbleful of dark red liquid pooled in the bottom of the bowl.

"Are you drunk?"

"Nonsense," Molly grumbled into the collar of the Belstaff. "I've only had two glasses. No. Three." Her brown eyes glowered up at him over the edge of the dark fabric. "But I did spill on your coat." She picked up the loose sleeve and waggled it at him. "So it really is more like two. An' a half."

"I'm sorry. I was scared," Sherlock blurted. He dragged a hand through his hair and glanced towards the tv (Jeremy Kyle, rerun, infidelity with multiple partners, obvious from the fold in his collar). "I am scared, Molly. I love you…"

The fear burned low in his belly, sharped by a craving that was all to familiar for an addict of his experience.

A rather rude noise escaped her throat. "I know all this, Sherlock," she said tartly. "We've had this conversation. I may not have your god-damned elephant memory, but even I can remember that. I don't need to hear it again, especially not right now." She huddled further into his coat. "Just go away."

It wasn't a fear that this addiction had the potential to destroy him, but that he could so easily destroy her. And maybe that made all the difference.

"Molly..." Sherlock took a half step closer.

She sprang to her feet – still planted on the couch, so she rose up to stand on the cushion rather than the floor – and in a flurry of action, wadded up the Belstaff and chucked it at him with both hands. "Oh, for God's sake, here! Take the damn coat, and get out!"

Sherlock caught the coat reflexively, but immediately let it drop. "I don't want the coat, woman!" he roared. "I want you!" In frustration, both at his lack of eloquence and Molly's unwillingness to just _swoon into his arms already, god dammit_ , he squeezed his eyes shut.

"What?" came the rather weak query from Molly.

"I want you," Sherlock said, opening his eyes and looking up. "I love you. Not the friendly sort, Molly. I'm in love with you." Her brow furrowed minutely, and he hastened to add, "This isn't a game. It isn't a trick. It's true. I think... I think it's always been true."

Molly, towering nearly a head over him from where she stood on the couch, gaped down at him with parted lips that were temptingly painted by the wine she'd consumed. She wobbled dangerously, on the verge of losing her balance. Sherlock hastily stepped forward, trampling his discarded coat underfoot, to reach for her waist, steadying her.

She braced her hands on his shoulders, and said, "Really?" Her breathing stopped as she looked down at him with glimmering eyes, waiting for an answer.

Sherlock's thumb hooked under the edge of her top, stroking the skin above her waistband. "Yes," he croaked around the lump in his throat. "Always, yes."

Molly inhaled sharply. "Oh," she breathed out, head dipping down, bringing her face closer, as Sherlock lifted his chin. " _Oh_." Then, she sort of … toppled the rest of the distance, lips landing on his.

Sherlock chuckled breathlessly as he pulled her closer and kissed her, tasting the wine she'd been drinking. It was something appalling she'd gotten for five pounds at Tesco, going by the label, but the vintage improved a hundred fold when sampled from Molly's lips.

"Tell me," she gasped, pulling away to speak.

Sherlock threaded his fingers through her hair, angling her head as he drew her back down. "I love you, Molly Hooper," he said immediately, nudging his mouth against hers in a teasing caress.

Molly responded similarly, sliding their mouths together without enough pressure to be called a proper kiss. Her tongue darted out to wet her lips; Sherlock's eyes fluttered as it made contact with his as well. "Sherlock…" she murmured, each breathy syllable formed distinctly on his sensitized skin.

He pressed closer for an instant, then gathered the will to release her mouth. Sherlock's hands did not follow suit, sliding through her hair, over her neck and shoulders, memorizing with touch the lines of her body that he'd long ago committed by sight.

"Bed?" he rumbled, preparing to scoop her off the couch and sweep her down the hall to finish what they'd started earlier in the evening.

"Oh!" Molly jerked backwards as violently as if she'd been electrocuted, out of his languid grasp, shoving at his chest hard enough to force him to step back. "No!" Her knees crumpled under her, and she sat heavily, butt landing on the back of the couch and narrowly missing tumbling off altogether. Her head shook from side to side as she held out a hand, keeping him from stepping close again. "No, I'm not _doing_ this. You need to go."

Sherlock's whole body seized, freezing him in place while his mind worked frantically, trying to process what was happening. He wasn't, as he'd once told Irene Adler, the kind of man to beg, but…

"You were wrong," Sherlock said, hands clenched into fists at his sides. He made his feet take another step back, needing the space, needing to give that much to Molly, at least.

Molly huffed in disbelief. " _I'm_ wrong?"

"You said…" Sherlock had to stop to breathe in. He pressed a hand to his aching chest. "When you said I didn't need you. I do need you. Molly, please…"

He didn't beg, as a rule. But if there was ever a time to take John Watson's advice, this was it. He couldn't go now and take the chance that she meant she wanted him gone forever.

The way he felt right now, that not just his heart, but his entire body was sinking into stone, left Sherlock with no more questions on whether or not he'd survive without Molly.

"Don't send me away," Sherlock pleaded. "I will do anything. I will be anything. If you just want to be friends, I will live with that, but-"

"Friends?" Molly interrupted shrilly. In the state he was in, Sherlock didn't notice her bewilderment, only her acrimony. "You think I _want_ to be friends?"

His eyes darted to the floor, passing over his crumpled coat without notice as he seriously considered getting on his knees.

"Oh, Sherlock." His head snapped up at Molly's sudden dismay. She clapped a hand over her mouth, butt sliding off the back of the couch and landing her on the cushion with knees bent, in much the same position she'd been in when he'd arrived. "I didn't mean- I meant..."

A shadow of hope flickered into view. Sherlock nearly bit through his tongue, not daring to interrupt.

She buried her face in both hands. "Tonight," she said, muffled but clear enough that he couldn't mistake her words. "I meant to say I can't do this tonight." Molly dropped her hands and made a face at the wine bottle on the table. "I'm sorry. I think I'm a bit drunk."

"Sound analysis, Doctor Hooper," Sherlock said acidly, while trying to dislodge his heart from his throat. The words registered a second later, and Sherlock winced. "Sorry."

Molly's knees fell to the sides so she was sitting cross-legged, and she leaned forward, holding out a hand. "Come here. Please?"

Sherlock stepped forward, slipped his hand into hers, pressing their palms together and intertwining their fingers, and sank into a crouch, looking up at her solemnly. Molly brushed back his curls, lingering to stroke her thumb over his brow.

"I love you so much, Sherlock." He jerked, lifting his chin up towards her, but she pressed the pads of her fingers briefly against his lips before he could speak. "But before this goes any further, I need to tell Michael that I can't go out with him anymore."

He didn't ask why, although frankly Sherlock thought it was an inconsequential matter. But he could see from Molly's agitation that this was important to her, so he only said, "Can't you just text?"

"That is not the sort of thing you say in a text, Sherlock," Molly said sharply. She bit her lip. "I'm sorry," she continued with chagrin. "I know this is…"

"Inconvenient in the extreme?" Sherlock filled in when Molly trailed off. "It's fine," he said, wrapping a hand over her knee and squeezing gently, although even he could hear that he sounded petulant. "I understand." Except he didn't, and Sherlock had a feeling Molly could tell.

"I know it seems silly," she said, "especially after- after earlier."

"No." Despite his aggravation, Sherlock's lips tilted upwards into a fond smile. "You're not silly, Molly."

Molly was just being Molly, and that Sherlock did understand. Kind, and generous, and always concerned about others.

"I just… I don't want to feel bad about us," Molly said, ducking her head. "I don't want to look back and regret anything."

The pressure in Sherlock's chest expanded, filling him with warmth and something … oh, but it had to be love, didn't it? Because just her mention of them as an 'us' (and a pair she intended to last, no less) sang through his veins like a rhapsody composed of chemicals. And like every good rhapsody, he was being taken through the entire spectrum of emotions: joy and hope the main ones, with fear playing a striking counterpoint.

"But I'm making assumptions, aren't I?" Molly said with a brittle laugh. The small sound, a clear sign that she was as uncertain as he, washed over him like a balm. "You haven't said what you-"

"I want you." Dissatisfied with that, Sherlock shook his head and amended, "I want _us_ , Molly. I don't care what we call it." He released their joined hands, but only enough to circle his fingertips around the base of her third finger. It was the wrong hand, but the point was made clearly enough.

"Oh, I- okay." Molly blinked rapidly several times, clearing the mist out of her eyes, a smile creeping over her face. "I think I'll say you're my toy boy, then."

Sherlock couldn't have maintained his composure to save his life. A laugh bubbled out of him, and their heads bent together, foreheads touching, as Molly's giggles sounded a charming descant against his baritone chuckles.

"Not exactly accurate, given that I'm older," Sherlock managed eventually. His hand had come to rest around the curve of her neck, and he curled the fine hair at her nape around his fingers.

"I'll talk to Michael in the morning," Molly said, sobering. She moved back to meet his eyes. "Promise me you won't change your mind by then."

As much as Sherlock had detested begging for himself, he liked Molly's pleas even less. "I love you, Molly Hooper," he said, sliding his hand down her shoulder, hoping to reassure her. "That isn't going to change."

She glanced away, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Sherlock stood, stubbornly ignoring the creaking of his not-as-young-as-they-used-to-be knees after being crouched down so long, sitting next to her on the couch instead and gathering her into an embrace. Much to his delight, Molly tucked perfectly into his side, as if they were adjoining puzzle pieces.

"I always have," Sherlock said. "I think I always will."

Molly lay her head on his shoulder, wiggling one arm behind his back so she could encircle his waist. "You're such an idiot," she lamented, half-seriously.

Sherlock briefly pressed his lips into her hair. "I did mention this isn't really my area."

She snorted. "Obviously."

They subsided into silence, content to linger in their embrace, nominally watching the muted television.

Molly shifted slightly when it flicked to a commercial. "You should go home," she said, but without any urgency.

Sherlock made a disgruntled sound. "I've stayed the night before."

"Not when I'm desperate to shag you stupid," Molly said. Sherlock tensed, heat pouring through him at her matter-of-fact admission. He floundered, wanting nothing more than to do … something, until she cheekily amended, "Well, stupider."

Grumbling, he subsided, but not before he pinched the exposed skin at her hip, where her shirt had rucked up. Molly squeaked, lifting her head, and Sherlock was ready, catching her lips in a quick, but chaste kiss. "Fine," he said, breaking away, "I'll go home."

"Good. That's good," Molly said, cheeks flushed pink.

But despite that, neither was willing to let go just yet. They resumed their previous position, and it was hours before Sherlock found the will to go home, and Molly the will to let him go.

…

"Molly!"

She looked up from the pavement at the call, seeing John just stepping away from 221 Baker Street. It took a little effort, but Molly plastered on a smile, which she found easy to keep going once it dawned on her that she'd reached her destination.

Her conversation with Michael had made for a subdued journey, even though it had gone just about as well as could be expected under the circumstances. Michael hadn't really been surprised at this turn of events, which actually had felt worse than his inevitable disappointment when she broke things off. But, they'd managed to end their brief foray into romance with best wishes for each other, and she wasn't going to beat herself up about it.

"John, hi!" she chirped.

"I should have realized that last text was from you," he said, laughing. "Sherlock all but literally kicked me out."

"Oh," Molly couldn't contain her eager glance at the plain, black door separating her from Sherlock. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything important."

"Nope," John said quickly, grinning wickedly when he noted that she wasn't nearly as apologetic as her words warranted. "I just came to make sure he hadn't buggered up his apology last night."

Molly's face warmed. Sherlock hadn't mentioned that he'd spoken to John the night before, but it wasn't surprising. And if John had been the one to send him back, then she had to be grateful, even if she couldn't help but wonder what Sherlock had seen fit to tell his best friend.

"And wonder of wonders, seems like he didn't," John continued, graciously ignoring Molly's blush. "Although frankly, I think you're barmy to pick Sherlock over an upstanding gent like Mr Perfect."

As John had never met Michael, that made his statement all the more tongue in cheek. He surprised her a second later by pulling her into a hug.

"I'm happy for you both," John said, pressing a brotherly kiss to her temple.

Molly blinked back tears. They'd never been really close before, and it was comforting to realize that they'd managed to find something good in the wreckage left after Mary's death.

"Thanks, John," Molly said warmly as they stepped apart. She shifted, antsy, glancing at the door again. "Um, I really should…"

"Yes, go!" John laughed. "Go, before Sherlock sets something on fire in anticipation." He paused a moment, looking slightly green, then rushed to add, "I mean, uh, with … with the blowtorch. That."

Molly doubled over in laughter as a flustered John stopped speaking.

"Get up there and put that poor man out of his misery," he told her archly, pointing towards the door.

Molly didn't need to be told twice. She bounded up the steps lighter than air and burst into the flat. Sherlock was pacing through the sitting room, looking very much on the verge of self-combustion, and not too far off from the way she felt.

He stopped as soon as he caught sight of her, straightening his spine and too-casually tucking his hands into the pockets of his dressing gown. "Molly."

The grin slipped off her face. "You said you weren't going to change your mind."

Sherlock's eyes shot wide in panic. "No!" A second later, he had her wrapped in his arms, mouth on hers, hot and desperate. Molly was instantly consumed, just as she'd been the night before when Sherlock had kissed her for the first time.

"Molly," he gasped as he dragged his lips off of her. "I do need to talk to you about something."

She might have been worried if not for the fact that Sherlock had fisted both hands in the fabric of her jumper, mulishly reluctant to release her. Leaning languidly against him, head tilted back to meet his concerned eyes, she just said, "Okay."

His fingers flexed at her back. "It's what people do," Sherlock said, a hint of question to the statement. "When they're…" He tilted his head, eyebrows doing acrobatics as he tried to find the right word.

Molly's stomach flapped wildly, out of excitement rather than nerves. "Partners?"

Sherlock nodded slowly. "Yes?"

"Well, I was set on 'toy boy'," Molly said, struggling to remain serious and failing miserably.

He favored her with a smile that was distracted from humor by an overwhelming affection. "What are you called in that scenario?" Sherlock wondered.

Molly didn't miss a beat. "Sugar mama."

That seemed to interest Sherlock. He tilted his head to the side, studying her thoughtfully. "Does that mean that I can ply you with sex when I want things?"

"I'm not stealing student cadavers for you to experiment on," she said flatly.

Sherlock looked affronted. "I would never ask you to do that."

"I'm not contriving an administrative hiccup that delivers a cadaver to your flat instead of the Gross Anatomy Lab." Molly paused for a beat while Sherlock pouted. "You're not _that_ good in bed," she said, in bullheaded defiance of every indication from last night that he actually was.

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow, leaning down so that his mouth was just above the upper curve of her ear. "Is that a challenge, Dr Hooper?" he said, his breath caressing down her neck.

She knew he'd felt the shudder she hadn't been able to still because his head dipped a little lower and his smirk curved against her skin. "Well, you're welcome to try," she said, gaze slipping towards the hallway and his bedroom.

A groan ripped from his throat, and Sherlock shifted so he could kiss her, softer and slower than before, but no less heated. Humming appreciatively, Molly tangled her fingers in his curls, molding the length of her body to his, trying to maximize their touch. By the way Sherlock clung to her, he wholeheartedly agreed with the notion.

"Molly," he murmured when they broke apart at last to let their greedy lungs have some oxygen. "I need you."

Despite the fact that she could feel an urgent need pressed against her, Molly knew that the one he was talking about ran much deeper than the physical. He spoke now in much the same manner as he had last night, when he'd feared she was kicking him out for good. She slid her hand around to cup his cheek. "What's wrong, love?"

Sherlock blinked rapidly, stalled as he processed the endearment. He'd get used to it soon enough, Molly thought giddily, touching a finger to the tip of his nose. "Sherlock?"

"Eu-Eurus," he said, stumbling over the word as he came back to life. Sherlock gazed down at her, mouth pinched at the corners, eyes flickering minutely as he observed every detail of her face in a way that only he could. Shaking his head slightly, he disentangled them and guided them to the couch.

"Her doctor called this morning," he said. "She's asked several times to see you. You aren't going." A frown must have flickered over her face, because Sherlock backtracked so quickly Molly could almost see smoke. "I'm not forbidding you. I don't – the doctors don't think it's a good idea."

Molly placed a hand over his; Sherlock immediately slipped his fingers between hers. "Okay," she said. Then, out of curiosity, "Why does she want to see me?"

Sherlock's grip tightened until it was painful, but as soon as Molly wiggled in discomfort, he eased up. "I don't know," he said through gritted teeth. "I _don't know_. And I hate not knowing." He ruffled his hair in irritation. "She asked me about you, when I visited."

That unsettled her more than Eurus' desire to see her. Molly vividly recalled how unsettled Sherlock had been the day of that visit, not to mention how irritable he'd been the day after.

"Eurus isn't likely to escape again," he said. "I'm confident of that. But…" Sherlock tilted his head away from her, staring above them where the wall joined with the ceiling. "I can only think that her interest in you has something to do with me. And if you- if you don't want … to do…" Sherlock paused, his mouth working silently for a second. "To do this, then… then I understand."

Luckily, he didn't look down, because Molly would have been caught gaping at him in a most unbecoming manner. She'd never heard Sherlock so clearly offer to do something he was so obviously reluctant to carry out.

For a long time now, he'd been concerned with her happiness. This just solidified the fact that hers was more important to him than his own. And with that, Molly realized that all the scary 'what ifs' about dating Sherlock Holmes were moot. He might be rubbish at the normal dating things like anniversaries and romance, but he would compromise on the things that were important to her, as he'd done last night.

There was nothing adequate to express both the vehement denial of his offer and the love and gratitude that had welled up when he made it. So instead of words, she climbed into his lap, straddling his hips and tucking her face into his neck. Sherlock's arms locked around her waist.

How could she tell him that being safe from the likes of Eurus was pointless when he had her heart? And so much more so now that she knew her feelings were returned in full.

(Even if it was possible to get it back, would it work correctly after so long in his possession? What would it do to Sherlock, if he'd wired it in with his own as she half suspected he'd done to keep his beating, and she just ripped it out? No, that didn't bear thinking about. Better to leave it where it was.)

"I'm not going anywhere," Molly said at last. "I've always been at risk, just being your friend."

Sherlock lay his head on hers. "Might be worse from now on."

"You'll keep me safe, Sherlock. I'm not afraid."

"What if I can't?" he said after a long hesitation, forcing the words out.

Molly froze, throat tight as she recalled the vow he'd made at John and Mary's wedding. And despite her declaration, she was afraid, a little. She didn't want to die, and there was a real risk of it, given Sherlock's history of racking up enemies. But, "I'd still rather be with you."

"Oh." Sherlock lifted his head off of hers, staring into the distance. "That's what John meant." He looked down when Molly rolled back to look up at him. "Is it always like this? Being with someone, I mean."

"Like what? Fucking terrifying?"

Sherlock nodded. They were both still a little somber, but Molly's reassurance had eased his agitation.

"Yeah, I think so," she admitted. Fidgeting, she finally asked, "Is it worth it?"

His brow furrowed as he considered that. "Given the alternative… absolutely."

Sherlock smiled down at her affectionately, eyes crinkled at the corners. Like always, it made Molly's breath catch in her throat. But unlike before, where Sherlock would have shied away upon noticing her reaction, now his grin only widened. "I love you," he said before he dipped down and kissed her.

Molly returned it with enthusiasm, their discussion tossed aside. Because ultimately, it didn't matter; they loved each other – well, they always had – and they'd finally reached a place where they could be together. If they had five decades or only five days as partners, they were determined to make the most of every second of it.

And _finally_ they were able to pick up where they'd left off the night before. The last twelve hours had seemed to last longer than the entire seven or so years since she'd met Sherlock. But nothing was in their way now. Not Sherlock's anxieties, not her relationship with Michael Perfect.

When the reality of the situation hit her, Molly set upon an all out campaign against Sherlock's shirt (but gently; he was wearing her favorite and she'd hate to rip it). Sherlock's hands weren't idle either, they'd started to creep under her jumper even before she started yanking his buttons open.

Both of them were too occupied to notice the door opening. It was only when John sang out that they realized they were no longer alone.

"Hi, sorry I- _Holy mother of mercy_! Sorry. Sorry, I left my phone."

Molly peeked over her shoulder and nearly choked on a laugh when she saw John with his hand clapped over his eyes.

"We're perfectly decent, John," Sherlock snapped. "Do fetch your phone and get out so we can be indecent in peace."

Molly buried her face in Sherlock's neck, smothering her embarrassed giggles. His arms went around her protectively with that ingrained posh chivalry of his that popped up from time to time.

"Right. So um," John said. "This is going to be a thing now, is it?"

" _Out,_ _John_!"

A minute later, the door slammed shut and Molly, still giggling, lifted her head. "You know he's been waiting ages to get you back for that shit you pulled with his girlfriends when he lived here."

Sherlock thought about that for a moment. "We should lock the door."

Eyes wide, Molly nodded. Sherlock hopped up and went to the door, yanking it open to stick his head out and shout, "No clients today, Mrs Hudson! Busy!" For the second time in the space of a minute, 221B's front door was slammed shut.

The click of the lock sounded loud in the suddenly charged atmosphere. Sherlock spun on his heel, dressing gown flaring out around him. His shirt was mostly unbuttoned but still tucked in, gaping deliciously to reveal a lean chest with just a dusting of hair. Molly's fingertips tingled in solidarity with certain other bits of her anatomy. Her brain suffered a critical error and needed to reboot.

Mrs Hudson's faint 'What?' floated up the stairs.

Molly blinked twice and licked her dry lips. "We-" She cleared her throat. "We should have gone to my flat."

"Too late for that now," Sherlock said, waving his hand.

Molly tilted her head to better view the newly revealed skin as his shirt gaped wider with the motion. "Uh-huh."

"Mrs Hudson will figure it out soon enough," Sherlock said, patting at his pockets. "Hardly anything she's unfamiliar with – ah!" Digging into his dressing gown pocket, he produced a square, foil packet, beaming from ear to ear. "Picked John's pocket earlier."

Molly flushed when she saw the condom, because she couldn't believe she'd forgotten something so basic while Sherlock 'practically a virgin' Holmes was on top of things. On the other hand, using John's condom seemed a bad idea for some reason…

Sherlock flipped it into his palm and pocketed it, crossing to the couch and holding out a hand. "And I haven't gotten around to poking holes in them yet, so this one's fine," he said. Molly let him pull her to her feet and nestle her into his embrace. "We ought to, ah, 'give it a go'."

His hesitation to use the colloquialism was the most endearing thing that had ever left his mouth.

(Not, Molly silently admitted, that there was a lot of competition.)

"And then some food, I think. We'll need the fuel for later."

"Wait, yet?" Molly interrupted, pretending not to notice that Sherlock was dancing them in the general direction of his bedroom. She wondered if they'd make it that far. "You are horrible," she added, laughing.

"Your idea," Sherlock said. "Besides, you love me."

"I do." Molly planted her feet, stopping their movement so she could lift up on her toes and kiss him. "God help me."

"Hm." Sherlock nudged his nose against hers. "I suppose we can table this conversation for now. I've got to find John a decent girlfriend first."

"Sherlock, I don't know how to tell you this," Molly said, sparkling eyes belying her very serious tone, "but you are absolute _rubbish_ as a matchmaker."

...

> **SH** Let's do this tonight.  
>  _[Attachment: 1 photo]_
> 
> OH MY GOD SHERLOCK  
>  Stop sending me porn at work! **Mx**
> 
> **SH** It is not porn. It's research.  
>  I found this fascinating website...
> 
> DO NOT  
>  SEND ME  
>  THAT LINK **Mx**
> 
> **SH** But Molly...
> 
> You can show me later.  
>  When I am not AT WORK **Mx**
> 
> **SH** Fine. So, tonight?
> 
> Will there be dinner? **Mx**
> 
> **SH** Ah, btw
> 
> You know I'm really starting to regret  
>  teaching you that abbreviation.  
>  Every time you use it… **Mx**
> 
> **SH** I have a case I need your help on.
> 
> And there it is.  
>  I'm not going on another case with you.  
>  btw **Mx**
> 
> **SH** But this one is important, Molly.  
>  It's at least a 9.  
>  A very enticing jewelry caper.
> 
> Nobody says 'caper' any more. **Mx**
> 
> **SH** But that's what it is. A caper.
> 
> Okay, but remember the last time? **Mx**
> 
> **SH** And it's at a very nice restaurant.
> 
> John needed six stitches and you  
>  broke my Fluevogs on that guy's face. **Mx**
> 
> **SH** He leered at you.  
>  Besides, why else would you have  
>  taken them off if you didn't intend  
>  to hit him with them?
> 
> I took them off so I could run!  
>  And you broke them.  
>  My. Fluevogs. **Mx**
> 
> **SH** Six months ago, you didn't  
>  know what Fluevogs were.
> 
> Neither did you.  
>  Anyway, Anthea gave them to me.  
>  I loved them.  **Mx**
> 
> **SH** I got you new ones!
> 
> And I love those ones too.  **Mx**
> 
> **SH** Good. Wear them tonight.  
>  It's your favorite restaurant.  
>  I need you there.  
>  I can't pull this one off without you.
> 
> Oh fine! I'll come **Mx**
> 
> **SH** Excellent.  
>  You should probably wear a dress too.  
>  I don't mind if you show up in just  
>  your heels, but you know you get cold.
> 
> Yeah, that's the only problem with that  
>  plan.  
>  Not like public indecency factors in.  **Mx**
> 
> **SH** Lestrade would bail us out.
> 
> Us? **Mx**
> 
> **SH** You don't think I'd let you get  
>  arrested alone, do you?
> 
> That's … actually sweet.  
>  Hang on.  
>  What do you mean by 'jewelry caper'?  
>  Is that code for something? **Mx**
> 
> **SH** You'll see.  
>  I love you.
> 
> Sherlock… **Mx**
> 
> **SH** Don't you have work to do?
> 
> Sherlock! **Mx**

 

_Laters_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it's been a bit of a rollercoaster ride, but they got there in the end. Thanks again for reading!


End file.
